Work in Progress: Study of an Evil Genius
by purplegirl761
Summary: With childlike exuberance, a mad scientist seeks world conquest. Lab accidents and sassy teenagers don't phase him on his way to discovering his destiny - a destiny that may not exactly be what he had in mind.
1. Love

Well, hi. Welcome to my latest work of madness.

I'm not sure if I can really explain this, but I'll try. There's something that circles the Internet (or at least - it's on a few sites I've seen) called the "100 Pic Challenge," giving you a word or phrase for you to draw a picture of. I thought this a neat idea, but I can't draw. At all. :)

So I changed one word in the title and challenged myself to 100 _fics _instead. I'll upload the better ones here.

My subject is Drakken, in case you couldn't guess by the title, but just about every other character on the show will pop up sooner or later. Story is rated K+, but a few segments may border on a T. I'll post a warning before those, and if anyone thinks I should change the rating, let me know and I will.

No real order to these. There could be a story about him all reformed after _Graduation_, and the next one may be about him as a seven-year-old. Just so you know.

Is that it? I think so. Okay - enjoy.

**Love**

When she reached up and pinched his cheek, his heart started to pound. Hard.

When she smiled at him - that gap between her teeth was kind of cute - his stomach felt like he'd swallowed a whole colony of butterflies. And on the hovercraft ride home, they were kind of squeezed together, so she leaned in and rested her head on his shoulder. He didn't know it was possible for hands to sweat, but they did. Oh, man, they did.

At first, he thought he was coming down with the flu. Only when Shego started teasing him did he realize what was going on.

She still hasn't let up, though. "Drakken and Amy, sittin' in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G!"

He flops down into a chair. "Knock it off, Shego."

"First comes love, then comes marriage -"

"I told you to knock it _off_!" He can feel the tears threatening, and he _hates _that.

"Then comes Drakken with a baby carriage!"

He squinches his face up as hard as he can to keep the tears from rolling out. His cheeks feel all warm for some bizarre reason. Maybe this is the flu after all. "Shego, keep that up and I will dock your paycheck!"

Shego leans down in front of the chair, eyes sparkling. She's not the least bit put off by that. "What's the matter, Dr. D.? Never had a crush before?"

_Crush_. It's a bizarre word. Makes him think of Eddy and the way he wants to smash everything in his path. He never understood that. Eddy's mom - his aunt - always said it was just him being male. He's not sure; he's male, after all, and he's never gotten the urge to crush much of anything. Except Kim Possible. But she doesn't count.

But they shouldn't call it a "crush." The word is too heavy, too dull, too fierce-sounding. They should call it something much more accurate. Like a warmth. Or a flutter.

Of course, the word is probably the _least _confusing part of all of this. Give him a doomsday device, and he can dissectit and know exactly what each part does. He can't really explain it (words aren't his strong point), but he _knows _it. This - this is something bizarre with no rules set in stone, no pattern that can be traced, nothing scientific that is steady and sure.

He considers Shego's question again. Sure, he's had crushes before. There was that nice little girl in first grade - they took turns pushing each other on the swing at recess. She even kept the dandelion he'd picked for her until it wilted.

And his seventh-grade science teacher who told him he was her best student. For the next two months, every apple Mother bought at the grocery store wound up on her desk.

And that pretty girl back in high school who said his glasses were cute. At the class Christmas party, someone had shoved the two of them under the mistletoe decoration. She was ready. He wasn't. So he blurted out something about needing to go to the bathroom really badly and hightailed it out of there.

"Doc? Doc?" Shego snaps her fingers in front of his face. "Earth to Drakken. Paging Drakken. Come in, Drakken."

"Stop it, Shego!" he spits out. "I was just -"

Her mouth twitches. "Daydreaming about DNAmy?"

He slaps his hands over his ears. "I can't _hear _you! La-la-la-la-la-la!"

That's a lie. He can still hear her laugh and say, "Yep. Consider yourself crushed."

He clamps his hands tighter. "Still can't hear you!"

Then she reaches up and bats his ponytail, and he has to take his hands down to swat her away. No one touches the tail.

DNAmy comes in then, carrying a plate of - are those gingersnaps? His stomach rumbles. She _is _about perfect.

"Baked some cookies for you, Honey-Bunny," she chirps out in that sweet little voice of hers. "I heard you like them."

Shego snorts. "That's an understatement."

"I-I-I." His mouth is malfunctioning. He swallows hard to get some saliva going. "I do. I love cookies."

DNAmy gives her nose a playful wrinkle and hands him a cookie. As she does, her hands brush against his sweaty ones for an instant.

His knees go weak.

_Consider me - fluttered._

Note: I'm not an avid shipper of any particular couples (except K/R), but I thought _Partners _was an adorable episode, and, hey, nobody writes Drakken/DNAmy - so I thought I'd be different. :)


	2. Dark

**Dark**

Thunder rumbling in the distance brings his head up from the blueprints just in time to see lightning flash right outside the window. His heart begins to do some thundering of its own. He _really _doesn't like thunderstorms.

He drops his pencil and scrambles for the door, flinging it open. "Shego!" he hollers.

"In the kitchen." She sounds perfectly calm, as usual. Why does nothing ever scare her?

He bursts into the kitchen. The light seems extra-bright against the darkness outside the windows, saying _ha-ha storm, you can't come in._ He relaxes slightly. Right. The storm can't get him inside.

Still, they are awfully high up. What if lightning strikes them?

"Shego," he manages to get out in a choked voice - okay, a whimper. "What if lightning strikes us?"

"We're indoors, Einstein," Shego replies. "It's not going to strike us unless we go outside and jump up and down far away from anything taller than us." She scowls down at the piece of paper she's writing on and taps it with her pencil. "Which I'm assuming not even _you're _clueless enough to do."

Right. Lightning only strikes the tallest thing around. For the first time in his life, he's glad to be medium-small.

"What are you doing?" he asks, peering over her shoulder.

"Making a grocery list," she answers. She turns her bored-looking green eyes toward him. "Do you have any idea how quickly we go through bottles of Pepto-Bismol around here?"

He gives her a sheepish smile. It's not his fault, really. His sweet tooth has a mind of its own.

Before that discussion can continue, though, the lights flicker - buzz - and go out. Someone gives a very loud, girly shriek.

"Oh, that - that's just great," he hears Shego's voice mumble. "I'm stranded in a thunderstorm with the one villain who's scared of the dark."

Was that _him _who screamed? Wow, that's embarrassing.

"I'm not scared," he says in his strongest voice. He sets his jaw, though he knows no one can see him.

"Look, Doc." Shego sounds utterly disgusted. "It doesn't actually bother me that much that you're scared." He hears her hair whip around and a couple of cabinet doors open and close. "Where do you keep your flashlight?"

He gapes into the pitch-black, broken only by lightning flickers that he cringes away from. At least he knows where the windows are. "What?"

"Flashlight. You know, it's a small device used to. . ."

"I know what a flashlight is, Shego!" he barks. "What do you mean it doesn't bother you that I'm scared? I mean, if I was scared. Which I'm not." Whew. He almost let the cat out of the bag.

"See, that's the thing. What _bothers _me is that you try to pretend you're not." More scuffling. "Why do you keep Christmas lights in your kitchen cabinets?"

Something clicks into place in his brain then. "You mean, it wouldn't bother you as much if I just admitted I was scared? If I was. Which I'm not." Another close call.

"Ding-ding-ding. Give the man a prize." Shego's voice sounds muffled from inside the cabinet. "Is that a half-eaten _cookie_?"

Oh. He's been wondering where that went.

But, okay, she wants him to be honest? He'll give her honesty - just a little bit, of course. See how she'll handle it. He takes a deep breath.

"I'm scared!"

"Yeah, I think we've established that." Evidently, his honesty hasn't impressed her yet. "Of what?"

"I'm scared of the dark and I'm scared of the light and I'm scared that I'm not evil enough and I'm scared that I'm too evil and I'm scared of Kim Possible and I'm scared of my mother and I'm scared of you and I'm scared of spiders and I'm scared of myself!" He doesn't mean to say all that - he doesn't mean to say half of that - and the crash of the thunder and the flash of the lightning and the sound of the rain makes everything worse. He buries his face in his arms on the table and bursts into tears.

There is a very long, awkward silence. For what feels like about three years, Shego even stops rifling through the cabinets.

"Well?" he finally says. "Say something!"

"What am I supposed to say?" she replies. "You just dumped out enough junk to keep Freud himself busy for the rest of his life."

He sniffs and tries to remember where he's heard that name before. "He was a psychiatrist, right?"

"Or something very similar," Shego agrees.

He sighs and sits up straighter in his chair. "So -

psychiatrise me."

"Drakken." She lets his name fall like lead. "I'm your sidekick, not your shrink."

"But you know everything!" He doesn't mean to say that, either.

She sighs. Hard. "Okay, fine. What do you want me to say?"

"What's wrong with me?" he asks.

"Easy." He hears her return to her flashlight-search. "You're whack."

"Oh. Okay." He's heard that many times before. "And what's the cure?"

"I dunno. Curl up in the fetal position and suck your thumb."

"I already tried that. It didn't work." When is the light going to come back on? It's a lot easier to let things slip out of his mouth in the dark.

"Then go running home to your mommy."

"I don't want to."

Shego gives another, even heavier sigh. "What _do _you want? I mean it; be honest. What's the one thing you want most?"

He answers automatically. "To rule the world."

She makes a noise like a game show buzzer. "I said 'be honest'."

"I _was _being honest!"

"Right." Shego snorts. "And I'm the Wicked Witch of the West."

He blinks in bewilderment into the darkness. "But. . . she melted."

He can imagine her rolling her eyes. "Sarcasm, Doc. That's S-A-R-C-A-S-M."

The hair on the back of his neck prickles up. Why does she have to be so rude all the time? "Impolite, Shego. That's I-M-P-O-L-I-G-H-T."

Another very long silence occurs, which Shego finally breaks by groaning, "No. No, it's not."

Darn. Spelling is hard.

He closes his eyes to ponder what he wants most, and it comes to him in a flash, of college. "I want. . . I just want none of this to have ever happened."

"Excuse _moi_?"

Well, he's already spilled about every other secret he has. . .

He tells her everything. About being teased all through school, all the way up till college, about finally getting friends, about the humiliation of trying to get a date, of not wanting to let them down, of how hard he worked to build those robots, about that fateful night where everything went so horribly wrong and led to this. And he cries again.

"Ouch," Shego says when he's finally done. "Bummer."

He lets that sink in. Those two words make his chest feel a little less crushed.

"There's the flashlight!" she cries in triumph.

There's a dull humming noise, and then the lights flicker back on. He watches as Shego lets the flashlight fall to the floor with a heavy thump. "Oh, of _course_," she mutters.

He snickers a little through his tears. Good to see that kind of thing can even happen to Shego.

"What are _you _laughing at?" She whirls around to face him and then shakes her head.

"Dude, look at you. You've got snot all over your face." She plucks a Kleenex from the box on the table and hands it to him. "Here. Blow."

He does, and it makes him feel a little bit better. "Thanks," he whispers.

"Yeah, yeah, don't mention it. _Really_." Shego swings her hair over her shoulders. "I'm going to the store, and then I'm going home. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Shego, wait!" he cries as she heads for the door. "What about you? What are you afraid of? How did you become a villain? What do you want more than anything?"

For a second so brief he thinks he dreamed it, she stiffens slightly. But then she turns, slowly, and gives him a wry smile. "The doctor," she says simply, "is out."

And leaves.


	3. Seeking Solace

**Seeking Solace**

He's taken five showers, three bubble baths, and bathed in tomato juice. He's out of hot water, his fingers and toes look like prunes, and he smells like spaghetti, but it hasn't helped. Nothing's helped.

He's flipped through every single one of his science books, checking to see if this a common side effect that will wear off in a couple of days, or if there's an antidote of some kind. But none of them say _anything _about this.

Maybe he's the first person in the world to have ever done this to himself. That would be about his luck.

"Murphy's Law," they call it. "Anything that can go wrong, will." He's surprised they're not calling it "Drakken's Law" by now.

But he stays calm, stays cool, stays collected - okay, no, not really. He runs around his lair for about twenty minutes, screaming for a medic before realizing he actually feels okay. It doesn't hurt; he doesn't feel sick. But it's very, very - he squints at himself in the mirror - unnerving. Maybe even a little bit scary.

There's only one thing left to do. He snatches up the phone and dials a number he knows by heart.

The phone rings and rings, and for a scarifying second, he wonders if she's not home. Maybe she's out playing Bingo with her friends - no, Wednesday is her Bingo night, and that's not till tomorrow.

"Lipsky residence," says the voice on the other end of the line.

"Hi, Mama." He hasn't called her that since his pre-puberty days; it sounds babyish. Right now, though, he doesn't care how much like a baby he sounds. He needs his mama. "It's me."

"Drewbie!" Her voice goes up a full octave. "How are you, honey?"

_How are you? _Sheesh, how is he supposed to answer that?

"Not. . . not too good," he finally mumbles. He hears her gasp and quickly adds, "I'm not sick, Mother. I'm not hurt. I just - something - something happened."

"What kind of something?" she asks. Her voice is soft, concerned. It makes him feel safe. Like when he was in third grade and he would cry out for her in the night - he had a lot of nightmares that year.

"Well, I was trying something - in the lab - and I guess something went a little bit wrong and I don't know exactly what happened but maybe it'll wear off soon and I don't know if there's anything you can do about it because even my books don't say anything about it but could you maybe come on over I don't wanna be alone!" He splatters it all out in one big blurt, and he hears his own voice get higher and higher.

"Drewbie, you lost me, pumpkin." Mother sounds kind of amused, but still worried. "What are you saying here?"

He shudders a little. Pumpkin isn't exactly the fruit he's resembling right now. "Bottom line?"

"Yes."

He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "Mother, I'm blue. And it's not coming off."

She says she'll be right over.


	4. Breathe Again

**Breathe Again**

The good news is, he's landed in a tree. Not that it felt very good coming down, but it sure beat slamming into, say, concrete at sixty miles an hour.

The bad news is - he's landed in a tree. And he has no idea how to get down. Is it just his destiny to be stuck in trees or something?

He scowls up at the birds a few branches above who have the nerve to sing and be happy. Nobody has the right to be happy anymore. The world is ruined.

Kim Possible must have called the cops by now, and they'll come and take him back to jail for the rest of his life. Not that he's sure how much longer the rest of his life is going to be. It feels hard to breathe, like someone put a stone on his chest or something.

So he drags in a couple ragged breaths, glaring at the setting sun. It's too pretty. The whole day should be gray and gloomy and pouring down rain. How can the world go on when he feels so - so - he gropes for a word - broken? Like he's been shattered into thousands of tiny pieces and no one will ever, _ever _be able to put him back together again?

__

All the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't put Drakken together again.

But the world _can _go on without him, he's seen. Kim Possible, Shego, that buffoon whose name he could never remember . . . none of them seemed to be the least bit bothered by his absence. Is he that unimportant? Does he matter that little to the world? How can it keep turning without him?

_Once it's in my grasp,_ he reminds himself,_ they'll never dare to forget me again!_

But there's not much chance of that anymore. Kim Possible even defeated Warmonga - Warmonga who was so big and strong and fierce. Maybe - maybe she really is all that.

If she's all that, what does that make _him_? Now it's _really _hard to breathe.

"Drakken!"

He freezes to the spot. He'd know that voice anywhere. Things either just got a whole lot better or a whole lot worse.

He chances a glance over the limb. Yep, it's Shego, and she looks angry. He draws his knees up to his chest and covers his eyes with his hands, not even daring to peek out. If he can't see her, she can't see him.

"Don't try to hide, Drakken. I can see you up there." Her voice is dead. No emotion at all.

If only he could be so lucky. He knows the tremble in his voice gives him away. "Go away! I hate you!"

"Yeah, so you've said." Shego flings her hair back. "Get your backside down here."

"No!" He squirms on the branch, feeling like there are bugs down his pants.

She sighs. Loudly. "Are you just being a brat, or are you stuck?"

"Both!" He lifts his chin up as far as he can and folds his arms over his squeezed-in chest.

"Then stay up there, for all I care. I just came to make sure you're alive."

His chest presses tighter. "Why do you care?"

He sees her shrug. "You know, I might be mentioned in your will or something."

"Well, you're not!" he spits back. He can feel burning in the tip of his nose, like he's going to sneeze, or maybe just cry. "Anything I left to you now goes to Commodore Puddles!"

"Drakken." Shego's voice goes sharp. "I'm not real fond of you right now either. You tried to have me killed by an alien woman with hero worship issues, remember?"

No. No. No. This isn't supposed to happen. "I wasn't going to kill you, Shego," he manages to choke out. "You know I wasn't."

"Uh-huh. Sure." He can practically _hear _her eyes rolling.

Anger bubbles up inside him. What does she think he is, some kind of monster?

_You're not a monster,_ a guard in prison said when he was having a bad day. Well, they'd all been bad days in prison. _But you got one inside you, and you gotta quit feeding it._

"I wasn't! Warmonga had you unconscious and asked me what I wanted to do with you! If I wanted you dead, you'd be dead!" The reality of that hits him, and his stomach yowls.

"Then why? Why'd you even do the darn thing in the first place?" Shego's voice sounds impatient, like it's tapping its toe. "Tell me!"

"Because," he gasps out, "I thought you were my friend, and you left me in jail. You broke out and you never came for me. You trashed my home and spray-painted that I was a loser. You _hurt _me - and - and I wanted you to hurt, too! I'm just sick of being the only one who ever hurts!"

By now, his throat is so thick he can barely breathe, and he can feel hot blotches on his face, but he's not crying. No way is he crying. He must have used up all his tears in prison when Lucre wasn't looking.

There's a long silence. No sound from Shego. She must have left him to his fate.

He whirls around and looks into a pair of hard green eyes. Shego's right next to him on the branch.

"I must be crazy," she mutters. "Absolutely, utterly crazy."

"What are you _doing_?" His voice drifts high, floats away.

"I'm getting you down, brainchild." She holds out a hand. "Here, grab on."

"No!" He scrambles away, nearly toppling over. "You'll throw me down and kill me!"

"Drakken." Shego's eyes narrow. "If I wanted you dead, you'd be dead. I woulda already thrown you over the side." The hand stays steady. "Now, do you want down or not?"

He takes her hand, and she drags him down.

Once his feet are on solid ground again, he looks everywhere but at Shego. She, on the other hand, he can see out of the corner of his eye, is looking right at him.

"So," she says casually, as if they're discussing the weather, "I'm going to be on vacation for the next week and a half. In the meantime, you round up the henchmen."

His chest loosens slightly. "What are me and them going to do?"

"They and I."

"What?"

"Never mind." Shego rolls her eyes. "Rebuild the lair. Think up a new evil scheme. You know the drill."

A tiny, warm spot glows somewhere inside him. "I'll - I'll come up with a new scheme for world domination!" He darts his eyes at her. "And then you'll come back and make fun of it?"

Shego sighs again, even heavier this time. "Yeah. Then I'll come back and make fun of it."

"Thank you!" he yelps. The world has righted itself. Everything is as it should be again! The happiness inside him is so overwhelming he grabs her hands and bounces up and down.

Shego yanks her hands away. "You drive me crazy."

She walks away. And he can breathe again.


	5. Misfortune

**Misfortune**

Most of the time, he doesn't pay much attention to what day is it. But today _must _be Friday the 13th.

It starts when he falls out of bed and hits the ground hard. He jumps up, panting, darting his eyes in all directions, looking for Kim Possible and the horde of giant rabid penguins who are chasing him through the jungle -

Nothing. Nothing but the first rays of sunshine coming in through his bedroom window. It was just a dream.

Well, of course it was. Since when do penguins live in the jungle?

He gets up then, jumps to his feet a little too fast, and stubs all of his toes - at the same time - on the bedpost. While he grabs his foot and hops around, he barks his shin on his nightstand.

He finally limps out to the kitchen, half his body throbbing. It looks like it's going to be one of _those _days.

His mouth won't come open until he licks his lips four times, so he knows he needs to get something to drink. With bleary eyes - he forgot to take out his contacts last night again - he fumbles open the refrigerator door and grabs the gallon of milk.

Now, what was he working on before he went to bed last night? He closes his eyes to remember.

Oh, right. A new Feline Hypnotism Ray. It's a good idea, a very good idea, but the first time he tried to build one - well, it didn't work out too well. He has the scar to prove it. He sighs and takes a long swig from the gallon.

Only after his mouth is full of something nasty-tasting does he remember - last night he broke the mustard jar. And put the mustard -

In the milk carton.

__

WARNING! WARNING! WARNING! CONTAMINANT!

He spews it out and vaults into the bathroom, where he rinses his mouth out about twenty times. Gross, gross, gross. His taste buds feel sick.

Once the last of the taste is out of his mouth, he glances down. Great. The mustard has landed on his dark blue lab coat in a yellowy-brown blob.

He groans. Dementor probably never has days like this.

So he takes off the coat and runs some water in the sink. He puts the coat in to soak. Maybe that'll get rid of the mustard. He'll ask Shego about it when she gets here.

He's been at the table, drawing up blueprints for the Feline Hypnotism Ray Version 2.0, for about ten minutes when he glances down and sees he's in his underwear. Oh, right. Took off the coat, need to get something else on.

By the time Shego arrives, he's in his pajama shirt and a pair of old jeans, left hand in a glove, right foot in a shoe, half his hair wrestled into its ponytail and the other half just flying loose. The blueprints aren't coming along well, either. All his pencils need to be sharpened, and he can't find the pencil sharpener.

Shego's eyebrows shoot up. "My, don't you look. . . presentable?"

He shakes his head no. No, he doesn't look presentable. He's a mess. But that's okay. He's a supervillain, not a model.

Before he can say anything, though, his stomach interrupts with a warning growl. _Give me food; I'm hungry._

Shego blinks. "Was that you?"

He shakes his head again and points to his stomach. "I didn't have breakfast. Couldn't find the milk."

Her mouth quirks. "How do you lose milk?"

"Well, last night I broke the mustard bottle and put the mustard in the milk carton, and I can't remember where I put the milk." He shrugs. Not his fault.

Shego rubs her forehead. "Ay carrumba."

Great. Things were already confusing enough; now his sidekick's not speaking English anymore. "Is that Spanish?"

"More or less." Shego grabs her nail file and goes to work.

"What does it mean?"

She rolls her eyes. "In this case, it means 'Why am I here instead of at the beach working on my tan?'"

He stares. Shego doesn't _have _a tan. She's even paler than him. "Because you like the idea of world domination."

"True, true." She points the nail file at him. "I probably shouldn't ask this, but what happened to your, um, regular clothes?"

He explains about the mustard incident. That's good for another eye-roll and a mumbled remark about "how can you take over the world if you can't even take care of yourself?"

He can take care of himself _just fine_, thank you. "So, do you think you can get the stain out?"

Shego groans. "I don't suppose your laundry detergent is actually in the laundry room closet." It's not a question.

He stops and thinks about that for a minute. "No, that's where the cookies are. Try in the basement, in the box marked 'Paintbrushes.'"

Her eyes narrow. "Paintbrushes. Okaaay."

At least working on the Feline Hypnotism Ray Version 2.0 makes him happy.

Attaching pieces together, actually understanding how something works, that makes him feel good inside.

He gets frustrated with his brain a lot. It's like one of his machines - absolutely brilliant, of course, but sometimes he just can't get it to do what he wants it to.

Speaking of stubborn, there's one little screw that just won't go in right on the Feline Hypnotism Ray Version 2.0. And, of course, he can't find his screwdriver.

He does, however, find a hammer in the silverware drawer. Maybe it'll work just as well.

He brings the hammer down perfectly - right on his pinkie finger.

__

Pain!

He yelps loudly, grabs his hand, hops around, and bashes right into the Feline Hypnotism Ray Version 2.0. It rattles and clinks, and the screw pops out and rolls down the heating vent.

__

ARRRGH!

There's only one thing left to do. "Shego!"

"Yeah?" Her voice drifts in from the laundry room.

"That loose screw finally fell out!" he calls.

It takes her ten minutes to stop laughing.


	6. Smile

**Smile**

He stands in the doorway of his room and gives it a quick once-over. It's mostly intact - some holes in the walls, but nothing they can't fix. It's been through worse.

He wanders over to his bookshelf and sits down, pulling out one science manual after another, leafing through them, making sure they're okay, putting them back. They're okay. They're all okay.

Reassured, he examines the rest of his room. His bed's all right - the sheet's a little torn, but his pillow's still in one piece. He picks it up and nuzzles it against his face. It's soft, comforting.

Speaking of comforting. . .

He darts his eyes around until they find his teddy bear. It fell off the bed, but it's okay, too. Phew. He couldn't handle losing another one.

He sinks down onto the bed for a minute, holding the bear in his lap. Raising his fingers, he lightly traces the scar under the bear's eye, then reaches up and traces his own.

He feels safe inside then, so he props the bear up on the bed and pulls the covers over it. There.

Closet. All his clothes are okay.

Pajama drawer. His spare pair of glasses didn't break.

Under the bed. A few of his comic books are ripped, but . . . that's okay. He surprises himself with the thought. He's sad, of course, but really, after nearly dying, what's a couple of comic books?

Wow. A lot can change in a couple of days.

Like Kim Possible and the buffoon - no, he probably shouldn't call him that anymore - her boyfriend - they graduated high school. Now they're going to college. After summer vacation, of course.

He sighs. College. He sure hopes it goes better for them than it did for him.

Double wow. He's wishing good things on Kim Possible and that guy?

He stops and considers that, swinging his feet over the edge of the bed, watching their motion. Back and forth, back and forth. Well, they did all just save the world together. You can't hate someone after you've helped them save the world.

Besides, nobody - not even his ex-arch-nemesises - should have to go through what he did in college. Nobody.

He stands up and surveys the room once more. Finally, he folds his arms over his chest. His breath comes out in a contented sigh. Yep. Everything is as it should be.

Everything is okay.

Except nothing will ever be the same again.

"Do-oc!" Shego's voice interrupts his train of thought. "Phone for you!"

He walks out into his lab, where she's holding the phone. Her eyes are shining like she has a secret.

He knows it can only be one person, but he asks anyway. "Is it my mother?"

Shego smirks. "No, it's the UN."

"Very funny." He snatches the phone from her. "Hello?"

"Dr. Drakken?"

Funny. He doesn't remember Mother sounding so . . . male.

"Yes?" he answers.

"This is," the person who apparently isn't Mother rattles off a name that sounds about forty-seven syllables long, then adds, "Ambassador to the United Nations."

Oh, snap. It _is _the UN.

"Really?" he squeaks. Then he whacks himself in the forehead. Of course, it's _really _the UN. It's probably all kinds of illegal to impersonate an ambassador.

The real question is, _Why are you calling _me_?_

The man chuckles. "Yes, really. Your bravery was greatly appreciated on the night of the alien invasion, sir."

Bravery? Sir? Him? His brain can't process that. "Really?" he repeats.

"Next week," the man continues, "you can consider yourself the focus of an awards ceremony and the owner of a medal of honor."

He pinches himself. Hard. It hurts, and he knows he's not dreaming. "A medal? Me?" he whispers. It doesn't feel right to talk too loudly. "What for?"

"For uncommon bravery and incredible good thinking in saving the world," the man replies. "Without you, we would all be living under alien control right now."

Goose bumps break out on his arms. The man's right. He saved the world. He _saved _the world. He did the right thing - and it felt _good_. Better than being a supervillain ever had. "Incredible good thinking?" he breathes, more to himself than the guy.

Something in him itches. Tickles. Whispers, _See? See? See? This is what you were made for._

He pushes it aside. He's not ready for more change. The years of his life he's been evil outnumber the years he hasn't been. It - it wouldn't be easy to just give up and walk away.

Still, a medal. . .

And then the man says it. "Incredible good thinking, indeed. Dr. Drakken, you are a genius."

He drops the phone.

After all these years, all the times he whispered it to himself, shouted it to the rooftops, demanded everyone else agree, because he hated doubting it - someone has said it. Without mind control. Without threats. Without fear of their life.

Just because they honestly think he's a genius.

With shaky hands, he picks the phone back up. "Thank you," he manages to get out - his throat feels thick, like maybe he's coming down with something. "You - you don't know how much that means to me."

"Well, you're very, very welcome."

A few minutes later, he hangs up, but he can't stay still. How can he, after all this? He grabs his own arms and wraps himself up in a hug, bouncing up and down. "Shego, Shego, Shego!"

"I heard, I heard." But she doesn't sound annoyed. Her mouth is twitching. "Congrats, Big Guy."

He can actually feel his lips touching his earlobes. His mouth hurts, because it's not meant to stretch that far, but it doesn't matter. Nothing matters.

He has never - never, ever, _ever _- felt happier.


	7. Silence

Note: My apologies if anything's wonky about the formatting; the site was freaking out on me. Just lemme know if something's wrong, and I'll do the best I can to fix it.

Any grammar errors are Drakken's, not my own. (In other words, they were done on purpose because he's not an Englist.)

**Silence**

He cannot _believe _what he's reading. What's this world coming to?

He flings the latest issue of _Villains _magazine into his sidekick's face. "Shego, look!"

She takes it from him and grins. "Oh yeah, the Fashionistas already have the Club Banana fall designs up for sale."

He growls under his breath. _Girls_.

"Not that, Shego!" He peers over the top of the magazine and stabs a finger at the notice at the bottom of the page. "Dementor wrote a book!"

Shego's eyebrows shoot up as she reads. "Confessions of an Evil Genius: Memoirs of Professor Dementor." She snorts and rolls her eyes. "What is it with you mad scientists and your inflated egos?"

He feels his scowl getting bigger. She's his sidekick; she's supposed to be supporting him right now. That's what evil families do for each other, after all. "But it's not fair! How come Dementor gets a book published and not me?"

Shego points at him with her nail file. "Hmm, let's see. Maybe because - you haven't written a book?"

Oh. Right. He feels the proudness go out of his shoulders, and he slumps down at the table. He's never actually written the book; just wanted to. Sometimes the things he's actually done and the things he just wants to do - sometimes he gets them confused. He mentally scolds his brain's filing system.

Still, as Shego keeps reading, an evil little idea filters into his brain. Dementor doesn't rule anything, thanks to Kim Possible, but he usually gets farther with his plans. Has more success. Others respect him more. Even Shego seems to respect him more. That makes him feel sad and angry and frustrated all at the same time, and he hates that. Really, really hates that.

So - his brain whirls - he'll read Dementor's book and find out whatever it is that makes him better. _Luckier_, he corrects himself. What makes Dementor have better luck than him. Maybe he carries around a rabbit's-foot or something.

But he'll find the secret to Dementor's better luck and use it for himself. He feels the grin spreading from ear to ear. He'll use Dementor's own book against him. Man, is he evil or what?

And then - then - then - the ideas are flying in before his brain can find the words for them - then he'll take over the world. And write his own book, _Confessions of an Evil Genius Who Is a Lot Eviler and Smarter Than That Other Guy._

He frowns slightly. There's only one problem - well, two, if you count the fact that title probably won't fit on the spine of a book. They'll have to abbreviate it to COAEG - um, WI -

No, no. Focus. Focus.

He closes his eyes and tries to remember what he was thinking about before he interrupted himself so rudely. Oh, right. How to get Dementor's book.

It says at the bottom of the magazine article, "To order, call 1-800-5DEMENT."

He is _not _going to buy Dementor's book. He has a reputation to uphold. If anyone knew that he wanted to read it - oh, he'd be laughed at so hard. He'd lose any respect he has now. He'd have to quit the human race.

But then another idea squirms its way into his mind, waves its hand and cries, _Look at me! Look at me!_

And then he knows.

You have to be quiet in a library. Very quiet. Like, no noise at all.

But it's hard to keep from groaning and grunting when all his search results turn up nothing. Not "Dementor." Not "Confessions of an Evil Genius." Not even "Demence," which is Dementor's real last name, according to Shego.

That's so confusing. Why can't everyone just use their real names? Except him, of course. "Drew Lipsky" is too stupid a name to use.

__

No offense, Mother.

He squirms a little, as if she's heard him.

The library doesn't have Dementor's book. _Now _what is he supposed to do?

Seething, he leaves the computer and stalks over to the children's book section. Maybe if he rips up a couple of picture books, he'll feel better. And show people how evil he is, to boot.

He grabs the first book his hands touch, yanks it off the shelf -

And stares. And stares. And stares.

No way can he rip up a book about Snowman Hank.

A little warm place opens up in his chest. This is just what he needs, and this book is going to be all his.

In leaps and bounds, he vaults up to the front desk - what are all those people staring at? Haven't they ever seen a blue mad scientist jumping around with a picture book before?

"Hello," he says to the librarian with his best evil chuckle. "I am stealing this book! And I am NOT going to pay for it! And there's nothing you can do about it because I'm evil!"

The librarian looks at him the way Shego did that one time when he started explaining how he'd taken over the world using salt shakers and ninja hippos - and it turned out he hadn't taken over the world - it turned out he had a fever of over 100.

"Sir," the librarian says slowly, quietly. "You can't steal a library book. They're free to anyone with a library card."

"Oh." Wow, that's awkward.

But he regains his composure quickly. "In that case, I will steal a library card!"

"They're free, too, sir."

He can't look up from the carpet. His face is scarlet, he knows. "Oh. Then - how do I get one?"

When he glances up, the librarian is actually smiling at him. "Just tell me your name and address, and we'll get one all fixed up for you."

So he does. He even remembers to give her the address of one of his lesser-used lairs, because he's so smart.

But he checks out the Snowman Hank book and wanders over to a table, sits down, and opens it up. Taking over the world can wait. Dementor's book can wait. Right now he needs to read _this _book.

And for awhile, it almost seems like the rest of the world doesn't exist anymore. There are no loud noises to distract him.

Because, after all, you have to be quiet in a library.

UPDATE: Dang, I'm sorry. Somehow that last. . . third(?) of this chapter wound up not getting posted, apparently.

Fixed. Enjoy. Sorry again. *sheepish grin*


	8. Questioning

**Questioning**

_It doesn't even seem like a big deal to them._

They're happy about it, sure. At least he thinks they are. They keep trading smug little smiles with each other that give him shivers up and down his spine.

But they're not excited. They're not jumping up and down and high-fiving each other and shrieking, "Look at us! We took over the world!"

How can they not be excited? It's the biggest deal _ever_.

"You can't just take over the world in the time it takes to order a pizza!" he bursts out.

Because it's not fair. He's been trying to do this for decades - trying with everything in him, devoting his whole life to it. Trying, trying, trying, hoping that one day he'll get it right. And then they just waltz on in and have the planet conquered in fifteen minutes, not even beside themselves with joy.

They're - they're acting like they do this every day.

He thinks back to Warmonga's words the first time they met. _This is standard planetary __domination equipment,_ she said.

He swallows hard. Maybe they _do _do this every day.

"You can't." Kim Possible's voice jolts him out of his thoughts. "Apparently, _they _can."

He doesn't snap back at her, because she doesn't sound like she's throwing his failures in his face. She sounds - scared. And that scares _him_.

He's never seen Kim Possible scared, at least not for longer than thirty seconds or so. For her to actually sound like she doesn't know what to do - well, he knows they're doomed, then. Because she's beaten Warmonga before. She's saved the world about a gajillion times. Even from someone as tough as him.

But now she looks as helpless as he feels.

"Silence, prisoners!" Warhok booms. His deep voice makes the inside of the ship vibrate - and with it, his own knees. He turns then to Warmonga and his face does something far too cruel to be called a smile. "Our conquest of the planet is complete."

No way. No way, no how.

But one look at the scene before him and he knows Warhok's right.

On several screens the aliens have mounted up, giant machines are scampering around on four legs like huge, evil spiders, smashing buildings - from the tiniest little shacks to huge skyscrapers. People are fleeing from them, and even from across the spaceship he can see the fear on their faces. They're running. Screaming. Crying.

It looks familiar. Way too familiar. But he can't quite put his finger on what it's reminding him of.

Until he glances at the Lorwardians themselves. They're laughing and exchanging nods as if they're watching the latest comedy instead of people running for their lives from them. They look like they're having a blast as they watch. As they _watch_.

His stomach, which has been surprisingly silent up till now, wakes up loudly and angrily. His brain's not seeing giant spider-machines anymore. He's seeing Diablos with their red paint and their evil smiles and their blaster arms.

He glances down at himself, relieved to see his good ol' blue lab coat instead of the shiny, sparkly suit. He's even happy to feel the flower petals around his neck, because it means he's not reliving that night.

His eyes keep going back to the aliens, though. And a question wanders into his brain and won't go away.

_Is that what I looked like?_

It churns in his stomach and burns in his brain until he can't keep it in anymore. He has to ask someone. And there's only one person here he can ask.

He clears his throat - roughly, because it feels clogged. Allergies, probably. With his luck, he's probably allergic to whatever type of flower he's turning into.

"Kim - " he begins quietly.

She turns and looks at him, face questioning.

"We said 'Silence,' Blue Deceiver!" Warmonga snarls.

He shrinks back and gulps. If they could conquer Earth in less than half an hour, what could they do to little old him?

"Yes, ma'am," he whimpers. Kim Possible shakes her head silently.

Warmonga does that shouldn't-be-called-a-smile smile. "Take the prisoners to the dungeon," she says with a wave of her hand.

The little platform they're on begins moving, and he chances a glance backward. Warhok's still examining the screens, but Warmonga's looking right at him. He shivers. There's something in her eyes - an evil darker and deeper than any he's ever imagined - ever knew _existed_.

Another question comes in then, one he's almost thought a couple of times, but one he's always managed to cut off before the whole thing showed up and changed everything.

__

Is that what I want to be?

He peeks over at Kim, but she's not looking at him. That's okay, though. He doesn't need to ask her _that _question. Because, deep down, he already knows the answer.

__

No.


	9. Blood

NOTE: I tried not to get too graphic, but I think the title is a warning in and of itself. If the very mention of *whispers* blood *end whisper* makes you queasy, this one should be avoided.

**Blood**

__

Green wire to purple. Purple wire to blue. Blue wire to yellow. Yellow wire to green.

There. The Feline Communication Translation Device - ooh, that sounds impressive, he congratulates himself for coming up with it - is complete.

He cracks his knuckles and hunches over the blueprints, nearly crawling across the table. Ah, yes. Next is the most important - and most delicate - part of the procedure. He whips the goggles off his head and reaches for the large computer chip in the middle of the table.

He must carefully slice this apart to make a willpower-depriving nanochip small enough to fit into the machine yet powerful enough to control the minds of those lions at the zoo. _Kids, don't try this at home._

He raises the Blade-Cutter-Thing that he still hasn't managed to come up with a decent name for and makes his first incision. He likes that word, _incision_. It just means "cut," but it sounds a lot better.

The thing sparks a little, and he flinches. Is is going to explode?

Nope. The sizzle dies down and he knows he's doing it right. He raises his hands in the air. Triumph!

And then - ugh, wouldn't you know? His cheek chooses that exact moment to start itching, just when everything was A-OK.

Well, he won't let it spoil the moment. He reaches up, scratches it quickly, then lowers his hand -

And there's a brief instant where everything moves in slow motion and he only notices one thing at a time. He registers that his cheek doesn't itch anymore, and then he registers the Blade-Cutter-Thing is still clutched firmly in his right hand.

_Wait - did I just -_

That question is answered quickly when he registers _pain_. Pain so bad his knees collapse under him and take him right down with them. Only by grabbing onto the edge of the lab table with one hand does he keep from hitting the ground.

Fear thumps around in him, because he's never hurt this bad in his life. The horrificness of it all brings his other hand up to his cheek, and he presses to try and make it stop throbbing.

But it doesn't stop. The pressure only makes it worse, and he takes his hand down.

And then he stares. Because his hand is covered - absolutely _covered _- with something thick and sticky and red.

Blood. His heart starts to pound faster, because he's bleeding. A lot. He tries to grip the table tighter, but his fingers barely squeeze.

No, no. It's okay. It's going to be okay. He bunches his eyes up tight to keep the tears from leaking out and to remember all the stuff he was told by his mother and the school nurse when he was little.

_Your head bleeds easily._

_Blood makes it seem a lot worse than it really is._

_Just press a Kleenex on it; that'll stop the bleeding._

He has to let go of the table with one hand to fumble around for the box of Kleenexes. The other hand stays firmly planted on his cheek.

His fingers finally bump the Kleenex box, and he reaches up and plucks one out. Taking his other hand down, he presses the Kleenex right up to the - the incision on his cheek.

Deep breaths. Deep breaths. In and out and in and out and in and out -

Within five seconds, the Kleenex is soaked straight through.

Then he forgets to be calm. He grabs the edge of the table again, 'cause black spots are starting to swim in front of his eyes.

"Shego!" He stops himself from yelling "Mommy!" just in time.

"Cut, scratch, or bruise?" She knows he's hurt. She understands.

He rolls over on the couch and stares at the ceiling. He just woke up a few minutes ago and for a little bit he didn't know where he was. Only when he felt the throbbing in his cheek and looked down and saw the Fearless Ferret sticker on his coat did he remember he'd conked out on the couch after the trip to the emergency room.

He checks the clock. It's eight at night, and that fumbles his brain all up. He fell asleep in the afternoon and woke up in the evening, and that's just plain confusing.

When he checks out his face in the bathroom mirror, he looks the same except for the huge tan bandage on his face. Oh, right. He remembers the doctor's words.

_"At worst, it'll scar. Just thought you should know."_

Yick. He's probably going to have a scar - a pretty big one, nasty-looking, and right there on his face, where he can't hide it under any clothes. He'll look like Frankenstein or something.

He swallows hard. His mother always said he was handsome, but nobody's handsome with scars on their face. That's just the way it is.

Shego even said the way he looked didn't matter, so she didn't care. And it was nice to know she didn't care, and she'd said the people who didn't think he was ugly already weren't going to be pushed over the edge by a scar. He knows she's right.

But, still, he squirms a little. People have been staring at him rudely already in the past few months, ever since that awful day when the blueness went on and wouldn't come off. This is gonna give them even more reason to stare.

He squints again at the mirror. Actually, the big ol' bandage on his cheek makes him look pretty tough. Like he's been in a big fight or something.

A smile wobbles slowly across his lips. Maybe - just maybe - a scar will make him look tougher.

Yeah. Tougher. Maybe with a scar, he'll finally strike fear into the hearts of mankind.

After all, supervillains aren't supposed to be _cute._

Another Note: The Frankenstein reference is just my way of thumbing my nose at Disney. In their novelization of the episode _Bueno Nacho, _Drakken is described as "hideous" and "ugly" with a "face that could scare Frankenstein," which kinda ticked me off. I mean - he's definitely not handsome or anything, but he's certainly not THAT ugly. Heck, despite that last line there, I think he's kinda cute. . .


	10. Gray

Thanks for the reviews, everyone. Reading your kind words makes my day. :)

**Gray**

He groans as his spine makes contact with the back of the chair. He hurts everywhere from bashing into the top of that train tunnel. The solid stone was even harder than it looked.

So the pain reminds him of his latest failed scheme, and that hurts, too. He remembers back when his brain used to bubble over with one great idea after another - he couldn't write them down fast enough. So when one idea failed, it was, as his arch-nemesis put it, "so not the drama." He just moved on to the next one.

But now - now it's been really hard for him to even come up with plans at all. They don't show up very often, and when they do, he forgets them almost as soon as he blinks. This one was so much trouble just to even remember - and then it _failed_.

He stares at the blank, white, empty piece of paper. His pencil itches in his fingers, wants to scribble down another evil plot. But he can't think of any. It's surreal, like the sun has burned out - like he's run out of something he thought he had a lifetime supply of.

_You messed up again._ The thoughts hiss at him. _Loser. Loser. Loser._

He folds himself into a ball, whimpering as his back cracks. Usually he tries to drown out those thoughts with ranting - but now he wonders if they're right. What if something's very, very wrong and won't ever be right again?

"I HAVE to be evil!" he says right out loud. "I don't know how to do anything else!"

"Did you say something?" Shego calls from the next room.

"No," he lies.

The phone rings then, right next to his ear. He about jumps out of his skin.

After he climbs off the top of the desk, though, he's grateful for the distraction. Maybe he'll be able to stop thinking about the nagging sensation that all his villain-ness has been used up.

"Hello, Drakken residence, Drakken speaking," he says in his most professional voice.

He doesn't recognize the voice, and he can't make out any words. All he can hear is the crying.

He takes a wild guess. "Mother?"

"No." Hmm. It's obviously a girl, but it's not Mother. He can't think of any other girls who would call him.

"It's Amy," the voice continues.

His mouth goes dry. Ugh. He never knows what to say to DNAmy anymore. "Hey, how have things been going since I proposed to you and you turned me down?" isn't exactly a good conversation-starter.

"Why - why are you calling me?" he manages to get out.

"It's Monty," DNAmy whines.

He feels his forehead fold. He doesn't _know _anyone named Monty. The confusion of everything knots up his brain until all he can say is, "Amy, I don't understand. Who's Monty?"

"Monkey Fist," she explains.

That doesn't ease his confusion. Why is she calling to talk to him about the guy she turned him down for?

He sighs loudly. Relationships are so confusing. "What about Monkey Fist?"

"He's dead."

In his mind, he hits the train tunnel again. She didn't just say what he just heard, did she? "He's what?"

"He went off to go find some big important weapon thing and -" she stops and hiccups - "and something happened. And he got turned to stone and there's no getting him out! My little cuddle monkey!"

Some small part of his brain notices how bizarre it is to be calling Monkey Fist a little cuddle monkey. But he can't say anything to her. It's like he's half-asleep and barely hearing her voice, barely feeling the chair under him.

Monkey Fist isn't his friend by any stretch of the means or whatever the expression is. He's kind of mean, and he says only saps depend on machinery to "do their villainy for them." That puts them at odds right away.

But they know each other pretty well. Monkey Fist is his acquaintance. Sometimes he's even his ally.

_Was _his ally.

That's when he starts to shake. No one he knows has ever died before - well, his grandma did, but she was about a hundred years old and so nobody was really surprised and besides he only saw her, like, twice before then, anyway. And he doesn't think pet goldfish count either.

"How do you know all this?" He can barely hear his own voice over the humming in his ears.

"Kim Possible and her friend came to tell me. They thought I should know," DNAmy answers.

He about spits out his teeth. "You let Kim Possible in your _house_?"

"Oh, yes." DNAmy's voice goes back to its usual little chirp for a minute. "We're all having milk and gingersnaps."

At least he's more villainous than her. "I - I - I -" he stutters.

"And I thought I should tell the rest of you." Her voice cracks again. "And don't tell me it's okay, because it's not!"

"I won't." He hates it when people tell him things are okay when they're very obviously not okay. "I know it's _not _okay. It's awful and it's horrible and it stinks! And I don't know what else to say."

He wishes he did. Actually, he wishes this conversation never took place.

"I'm gonna go call Duff now," DNAmy whispers. "Thanks for just listening, Drakky."

He's glad she can't see his face go red through the phone line. Talking to her is still really awkward. He hangs up the phone without saying goodbye. The whole thing feels like a bad dream.

"She-she-she-Shego!" His voice gets stuck.

Shego appears then, out of nowhere, in that way she can do. She's filing her nails and smirking. How can she look the same when everything's so different? "You bellowed?" she asks.

He just stares at her, because he can't make his mouth move. He must look worse than he thought, because Shego points the nail file at him. "You okay, Doc?"

"No," he answers.

Shego's eyebrows quirk. "Yikes, who died?"

"Monkey Fist," he says simply.

The nail file clatters to the floor.

DNAmy somehow managed to haul the statue into HenchCo's basement. She and the rest of the villains - that includes him, too - are there to pay their respects. His teen foe and her goofy beau (ooh, he _likes _that!) are standing off to one side, making sure nobody "tries anything funny," as Kim Possible said. Somehow he's pretty sure she doesn't mean whoopee cushions.

When it's his turn, he just stares at the statue for a long time. It's gray and smooth-looking, but he doesn't want to touch it. Just the thought of his fingers brushing it gives him the shivers.

But it's the look that gets him. Monkey Fist is barely standing up, knees bent, one hand reaching up, empty eyes wide - like he's grabbing for something just beyond his reach. And not lemon squares. Help, more likely.

"I'll be honest with you." He hears Kim Possible's voice and whips around to see her leaning against the wall. Nobody else is around, and his eyes get big. Is she talking to _him_?

"I'm glad he can't make trouble anymore," Kim continues. Her green eyes droop at the corners. "But I wish there was some other way."

"Did - did he suffer?" He isn't sure he wants to know the answer.

Kim shrugs. "I don't know."

"Was he scared?" He isn't sure why he asked that.

Kim sighs. "Drakken, I _don't know_."

She sounds annoyed, so he shrinks back a little. Annoyed usually comes before green balls of plasma hurled in his general direction - except Kim Possible can't do that, he remembers. Still, she can kick hard.

"Do you know what happened?" he asks.

"Let's just say," her voice gets serious, "he was messing around with powers beyond his control. That's the risk you take as a villain."

Then she's gone, and he's left to try and process that. Powers beyond his control? That sounds like something out of a cheesy horror movie.

_The risk you take_, she said. Did she mean villains in general or was she talking to him?

He sinks down next to the statue because his knees won't hold him up anymore. He's remembering things, and he can't stop them.

The Diablos, of course. What happened with Warmonga. That terrible time, only a few weeks ago, when he opened his eyes and found himself in the middle of the ocean in pirate clothes, feeling half-sick and out of control. He still doesn't remember how he wound up in that situation.

Is - is he messing around with stuff he can't control, too?

He looks up into the eye holes of the statue and shivers. "Can - can you hear me, Monkey Fist?" he whispers.

No answer. Well, that only makes sense. Even if he can hear him, he's probably not in any position to respond.

"Did you ever think you shouldn't be a villain, but you didn't know what else to do?" he continues. "Did - did you wish, right before you got turned to stone, that you'd become a radio talk show doctor like your mother thought you were? Where are you now? Does it hurt?"

He swallows hard and gets out the last question. "Are you scared?" He leans in and puts his lips a few inches from the statue's ear. "Because I am."


	11. Fortitude

**Fortitude**

__

He presses himself against the wall, blending in with the shadows. When he's sure the danger has passed, he slinks off into the darkness, silent as a cat. Because he's not a small-for-his-age, scared-of-his-own-shadow seven-and-a-half-year-old anymore.

He is. . . Spider-Man!

He peers into the light at the end of the hall, blinking to adjust his spider-sensing eyes to the sudden brightness. There, hunched over bills and paperwork, is his arch-nemesis Dr. Octopus!

He narrows his eyes, sets his jaw, and prepares his web-slingers. With a savage cry, he leaps into battle, wrapping himself around the evil doctor's leg. With a noise of surprise, his foe looks down at him and hollers -

"What are you _doing_, kid?"

"I'm Spider-Man!" he announces fiercely, squeezing the leg tighter. "You're goin' down, Doc Oc!"

His dad reaches down and pries him off his leg with big, strong fingers. "Look, I don't have time for this. I'm very busy."

"But, Daddy!" He peels his mask off and stares at his father in confusion. He didn't forget, did he? Not _again_. "It's Halloween!"

Daddy looks at him with bleary eyes. "And?"

The tears burn in his eyes, but he holds them back. Spider-Man doesn't cry. "You said you'd take me 'n' Eddy trick-or-treating! You _promised_!"

His dad lets out a long sigh, and he knows that's bad. When Daddy sighs like that, it always means he's too busy for him. "Drew, I'm sorry."

__

No, you're not.

"But the corporation always meets at the beginning of every month, so I've got a big deadline to meet. It's just very important." His father's eyes are already back on his papers.

"I'm important, too!" He stomps a red-slippered foot on the living room floor because he doesn't know what else to do. He doesn't wanna throw a tantrum - but there's nothing else left.

"Drew!" Daddy's voice comes out sharp. "I said no!"

He shrinks back. There's never any warning before his dad gets angry - just poof, and he's yelling. He never throws things or punches anyone like the bullies at school, but the mad-voice scares him even more.

He pulls his mask back on, just in case he does cry. That way no one will see him. It could be worse, he tells himself. Spider-Man doesn't have a dad at all - _or _a mom.

But he does. He has a mom who he bumps right into because he's staring down at the rug instead of watching where he's going.

He lifts his head and sniffs. "Sorry, ma'am," he gets out thickly. "I was busy looking for Dr. Octopus."

"Drewbie." His mom bends down and takes his chin in her hands, so he has to look at her. "He forgot, didn't he?"

His tummy shivers, and he nods. "He _always _forgets."

She folds him up in a hug, and he doesn't resist. Even Spider-Man needs hugs sometimes. "He promised, Mama. He promised."

"I know, I know," Mama answers. Her voice is soft, like he's a puppy or something. "I'll take you boys. You two deserve that."

"You baby him so much," Daddy's voice rises from the living room.

He slinks off before they can start arguing. Well, before his dad can start arguing and his mom can start crying.

"So, you ready to go get candy, cuz?" Eddy can't even fit through the front door in his race-car costume.

He smiles then. Candy - chocolate bars and Skittles and popcorn balls and Reeses cups and malted milk balls and oh man, his tummy's growling already.

"Yeah!" he answers. He gives Eddy a little punch on the arm, and Eddy gives him one back, and then he's out the door.

But the neighborhood that was so bright and cheerful and covered with yellow and red and orange leaves this morning is now pitch-black, only the light of the full moon outlining the bare branches of trees. He shivers a little. The trees look like skeletons or something.

The hand that's not holding his plastic pumpkin finds his mom's hand, and she gives it a squeeze. He swallows hard. Spider-Man's not scared. Spider-Man's got Aunt May with him.

Eddy, on the other hand, isn't scared at all. He barges right on ahead, pumpkin-pail banging against his legs. "Trick or treat, smell my feet, gimme somethin' good to eat! If you don't -"

"Ed-_dy_." His mother's voice rises. "Behave yourself, young man!"

"Ah, man," his cousin groans. But that's all he gets out before the Grim Reaper walks by.

He yelps and wraps himself around his mom's leg. "Mommy!"

She strokes his head through his mask. "It's okay, Drewbie. It's just a costume."

Right. He knows that.

"Wicked costume, dude!" Eddy thumps the Grim Reaper's leg. "Ser'ously!"

"Thanks," comes a muffled voice from inside the hood. He lets out his breath slowly. He knows that voice. It's just the kid from down the street.

It goes on like that for the rest of the night. He and Eddy run up and ring doorbells and get candy and then run back. The difference is, he dodges the skeleton and witch decorations and Eddy runs right up and knocks on their heads and announces to the world that they're not real.

Finally, they come to the last house on the block. It's big and dark-green and scary even in the daytime, so at night it's even worse. And on Halloween night - on Halloween night it has a big ol' jack-o'-lantern propped up on its front porch, with glowing eyes and sharp-looking fangs.

Even Eddy stops and gulps. "Bet they're givin' out somethin' really good."

"Yeah." He tries to keep the whimper out of his voice. "Probably full-sized Milky Ways."

Neither of them takes a step toward the house.

"Boys." His mom's voice is even softer than usual. "If you want to skip this house, we can."

Something in him snaps, and he sets his shoulders. "No way!" he bursts out. "Even - even Spider-Man gets scared."

"Does he now?" Mama asks.

He nods seriously. "Yep. He's not brave because he's not scared. He's brave 'cause he goes and fights the bad guys anyway." He takes a deep breath. "Let's go, Eddy."

In the light of the jack-o'-lantern, Mama's eyes look shiny and wet. He'll never figure out why she cries so much.

Eddy shoves in front of him and sets a foot up on the porch. Evil laughter splits the night.

His younger, bigger, tougher cousin freezes. "It's a ghost!"

And it _is_. Something wispy and white is covering the entire front porch, its empty eyes and nose over the door.

But it can't be. He squints at the door. "Ghosts are a scientific impossibility."

With trembling fingers, he reaches up and touches the ghost. His hands pass right through and land on the door. Of course, he's heard you can't touch a ghost. But he didn't feel anything at all when he did that.

Spider-Man-like, he drops to his knees and follows the sound of the ghostly laughter. It leads right to a big black box on the side of the porch, like the kind they use in a movie theater.

He reaches up and yanks the box's plug out of the wall. The ghost disappears and the night goes still.

Eddy stares at him, eyes round. "You totally rock, cuz!"

He feels a grin starting. "There's always a scientific explanation."

And that, he realizes, isn't Spider-Man being brave. That's Drew Lipsky being brave.

NOTE: Spider-Man is used without permission. Please have mercy on me if you happen to work for Marvel Comics.


	12. Vacation

**Vacation**

_Y__ou're doing okay._ His doctor's words ring in his mind. _But your blood pressure's getting pretty high. Working all the time isn't good for you._

So, he figures, what the heck? It's almost summer and Shego's already left for _her _vacation. Why not go on one of his own?

He grunts as he wiggles his swimsuit over his head. He's pretty sure he's going to be the only guy at the beach in an old-fashioned over-the-shoulders bathing suit.

Still, it's a pretty snazzy suit, if he has to say so himself. Dark blue with shiny stripes on the bottoms and the words "Evil Genius" written in big red letters across the front. Matter of fact, it's so - what would Kim Possible say? - spankin' that he's almost forgotten he bought it so he won't lose his trunks the instant he hits the water anymore.

Okay, that's the arm hole. Not where his head is supposed to go.

That's the only disadvantage about this kind of suit. It's a lot easier to get lost in.

Finally he finds the neck opening and pokes his head through, stopping to untangle his arms, which have somehow wound up in the same hole. This is the second time he's had to do that, too - the first time he put it on backwards.

He reaches up and pulls the rubber band out of his hair, laying it on the nightstand next to the hotel bed. The rubber band, that is, not his hair. He puts on his sandals, trying to ignore the word "CHILDREN'S" on their soles.

Then he snatches up his plastic bucket and shovel, both of which he likes. The shovel's bright green, small enough to fit in his hands, but sturdy enough to build the most magnificent sand castles with. The bucket, though, is his favorite. It's the blue of the ocean toward the bottom, with a red-orange-yellow-pink-purple sunset near the top. In the middle are pictures of dolphins jumping. Matter of fact, he likes it so much he's written on the bottom, "Property of Dr. Drakken. Steal and you will suffer a very slow and painful death."

He slings a towel over his shoulder and lets out a happy sigh. There. He's ready to hit the beach.

The water is freezing. _Below _freezing. Maybe he read his map wrong and wound up at the Arctic Ocean instead of the Atlantic - or Pacific - whichever one this is - because the water is C-O-L-D, COLD.

Gasping, he swims back to shore as quick as he can and flops down onto the sand. It sizzles through his soaking-wet suit.

Yep. Warm sand under him. Warm sun above him. Okay, that feels _good_.

So good he closes his eyes, and then even his eyelids feel warm. Laying down like that makes his back feel better, too.

He grins from ear to ear. This is the life. He can feel himself tanning - or getting bluer. Whatever.

"So, what's with the nerd suit?"

He sits up straight, opens his eyes, and whips his head around. His eyes are blurry without his contacts, but he can make out a form that's obviously a girl, based on her style of swimsuit. A girl with really long, really black hair. Shego.

"What are _you _doing here?" he yelps.

"Could ask you the same thing, Dr. D." Shego swings up her sunglasses and smirks at him. "I thought the criminal mastermind didn't need a vacation."

"Doctor's orders," he retorts. "Besides, you're not the boss of me, remember?" He tilts his chin and gives her his fiercest look.

She doesn't seem intimidated. "Oh yeah, I remember, all right. So - what's with the nerd suit?" She stabs the "V" in "Evil Genius" with a sharp fingernail.

He wiggles away from her poke, builds a fib in his brain, and test-drives it. "For your information, _Shego_, these are considered avant-garde in France," he says, trying his best to sound contemptful. Actually, that might not even be a fib. They could be for all he knows.

Shego snorts. "Right." The gleam in her eyes tells him she's already guessed the real reason.

He stands up so he can be taller than her, at least a little. "I have important matters to attend to!" He stalks off, sandals squishing and making his feet cold.

"Yeah!" Shego calls after him. "Those sand castle aren't gonna build themselves, after all!"

How does she always know these things?

He puts the finishing touch on his fifteenth castle. There. Now he's got a regular little world of them.

His brain speeds up. _A regular little world. . ._

Yes!

He runs around, feet churning up sand behind him, and places himself in front of the collection of sand castles. They're big for sand castles, but he's a lot bigger. A lot stronger. A lot powerfuller.

He feels an evil grin starting. Yes. Yes. Yes. "I have taken over the world!" he cries. "Bow before me, citizens of Sandcastletopia! Fear your new ruler, Dr. Drakken!"

"Oh no," he says in a squeaky voice, pretending to be a helpless little sand-person. "What shall we do?"

"You shall - you shall -" his voice trails off. Oh, rats, he doesn't know what they're supposed to do. "You shall do whatever I tell you!"

"Oh, yes, great Drakken," he makes Helpless Sand-Man say. "Whatever you say."

"Good!" He rubs his hands together. "Bring me chocolate chip cookies! And scratch that spot on my back that I can never reach!"

"Your wish is our command, sir."

Man, this is fun.

It's fun right up until the tide rolls in. "No!" he screams as the waves get closer and closer. "You can't knock down my kingdom!"

The ocean doesn't pay any attention to him, though. It just crashes in and reduces his empire to a wet, mushy pile of sand and soaks him in the process.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

A couple of lifeguards turn to stare at him. Over his own howl of despair, he can vaguely hear someone say, "What is it? A shark? A tsunami?"

"Nah," someone else grunts. "Some kid just got their sandcastle knocked over."

That makes everything worse. He is _not _a kid. He is an adult!

Swiping away the frustrated tears that make his eyes burn, he raises a fist and shakes it at the tide. "Atlantic or Pacific Ocean!" he cries. "You think you're all that, but you're not!"

He feels hands on his shoulders, and Shego mumbles, "Maybe you better get out of the sun for awhile, Doc."

So he does. He goes back to his room and contents himself with eating out of the mini-fridge and watching TV.

And then, with his stomach full of candy bars and his brain full of cartoons, he drifts off to sleep. He still wants to dominate the world, of course, but right now he's pretty happy he took a vacation.


	13. No Time

WARNING: This is definitely a borderline T. Also, I have no way to recreating the "scene breaks" the original story has, and it might lose some of its effect with them. See end of fic for explanatory notes. . . this one's a doozy.

**No Time**

He leans all the way across the desk, being careful not to lose his balance and fall out of his chair. He has an audience now - a _big_ audience, not just Shego. People he hasn't really worked with before. People he needs to make a good impression on.

And he's sure to impress them with his latest idea, which pops straight out of his mouth almost before it registers in his brain.

"Dinosaurs!" he hollers. "We shall unleash an army of ferocious, bloodthirsty dinosaurs on the unsuspecting citizens of the world!" He throws back his head and gives his best evil laugh, and it rings in his ears and impresses him. Yes, he's evil, all right. Incredibly evil. Evil enough to unleash man-eating dinosaurs on the world.

Surely these two can't come up with anything eviler than that. Oh, no. Shouldn't have said that. Now he's wondering - again - whether "eviler" is even a word.

He's about to ask Shego about that when he realizes he's still laughing evilly, and no one else is joining in. When he brings his head down, Monkey Fist and Duff Killigan are looking at him like he's just suggested they go give Kim Possible a big hug or something.

"Are ye daft, man?" Duff finally says.

He doesn't know what "daft" means, but he's pretty sure it's not a good thing, based on Duff's expression. So he says, "No."

"Everyone knows dinosaurs died out a gazillion years ago," Duff added. "It's no' like we can break into the zoo and take one."

Oh. He feels like that machine he saw on the Sci-Fi channel last night - the one that ran out of batteries right when it was about to destroy Tokyo. Why does everything attack Tokyo, he wonders? Is it a weak city or something? Maybe he should try attacking it - no, wait, he already did that once, didn't he?

_Arrgh!_ He grabs his hair in his hand and yanks, trying to wrench some answers free. _What was I thinking about?_

Oh, right. He was so caught up in the utter brilliance of using dinosaurs that he forgot to come up with a way to find the dinosaurs. He sighs and slumps down in his seat. Why does world domination have to be so darn hard?

"Earth to Doc." Shego snaps her fingers in his face, and he jumps a mile. "We're still talking, if you want to have your say."

"_I'm _the evil mastermind!" he bursts out. "Of course I should have my say!"

"So it's agreed we're going to dominate the world," Monkey Fist said smoothly, calmly. He wouldn't admit it to anyone, but he's a little bit jealous of that. He can't make his voice sound smooth and calm no matter how hard he tries. And he tries hard. "And then the three of us will split it equally."

Shego coughs.

"But you can't just divide the world into thirds!" he shrieks as the thought hits him. "There's seven continents, so there's going to be one left over! And some of the continents are bigger than others! There's NO WAY we can divide the world among the three of us!"

Shego coughs louder.

He turns to her. "Do you need a cough drop or something?"

For some reason, Shego groans and puts her head in her hands. Maybe she's getting the flu or something. "The _four _of us, remember?"

"Oh, right." He shrugs.

"And," Shego continues, "maybe we should dominate the world first and then argue about who gets what."

She's right again. That never ceases to amaze him. So far everyone's managed to look intelligent except him. "I still say we should use dinosaurs," he mumbles.

"Look, laddie," Duff grunts, "we don't have any dinosaurs. It's not like we can just go back in time and get some."

Monkey Fist's eyes suddenly light up. "Actually, gentlemen, we just might be able to."

They all whip their heads around and stare. "Huh?" he blurts out.

Monkey Fist pulls a picture out of his pocket and smooths it out on the table. He wants to see, so he shoves Duff away with his elbow and leans in as close as he can, ignoring the golfer's squawks. Serves him right for calling him "daft," whatever it means.

The picture's of a stone statue, in a shape that looks kind of like one of those cymbal monkeys, only it's missing a head. He frowns. This thing looks like a weird garden decoration, not a weapon of mass destruction.

"The Tempus Simia idol," Monkey Fist explains, voice low and. . . respectful. Like he's talking in church or something. "Legend has it that once it is rejoined with its head, it will grant whoever uses it the power of time travel."

Sounds good to him. "Wonderful!" he exclaims.

Shego cocks a brow. "Its. . . head."

"Where _is _its noggin?" Duff asks.

Monkey Fist looks up from the table, gray eyes intense. "No one knows for sure. But the legend also says that when the Tempus Simia is near its head, it will clap."

He stares at the monkey's cymbal-hands, trying to imagine them moving. He knows his own eyes are popping out of his head. "It claps? How?"

"Mystical Monkey Power, my dear chap." Somehow the way Monkey Fist says "my dear chap," makes it sound worse then "daft."

"So where's the idol?" Shego leans in over his shoulder.

Monkey Fist smiles thinly. "The Middleton Museum of Natural History."

Middleton. Doesn't that just figure? Hometown of Kim Possible, the buffoon, Rufus, Dr. James Possible. . . and the scrawny kid with the glasses he's trying to forget used to be him.

But he still grins, thinking of the power of time travel. "Fine!" he says. "We'll get that monkey in no time!"

Suddenly he realizes what he's just said and elbows Shego in the ribs. "Get it, Shego? No time?" Oh, he's funny without even trying to be!

Shego groans again. "It's going to be a long partnership."

It's failed. Again, it's failed.

"We'll corrupt the time stream if you leave us here in the past!" he explains frantically to the police officer. Why won't he listen? Why doesn't he understand?

The officer looks at him like he's "daft." "Right," he finally says. "Never heard that one before."

He thinks he's lying to get out of going to jail, which is only half true. He doesn't want to go to jail, but you really can't mess around with the time stream. Hasn't this guy ever read any science fiction?

_Fine,_ he thinks as he starts to crawl into the back of the paddy wagon. _But when the space-time continuum implodes, you'll have no one to blame but yourself!_

He relaxes a little as he remembers something, though. Shego's still out there. She'll come, she'll break them out, and they'll either try something else with the Tempus Simia or move on to a new project. A shrink ray sounds good -

But there's a whirling sound and a cry of "Later, losers!" and everything implodes on _him_ instead.

He stares at the green, ominous sky. "How. . . how did this happen?" he croaks out.

"It doesn't matter." Shego's voice comes from behind him, calm and cruel. "All that matters is that the world is under my control."

She leans in closer. "And so are you."

With a shaky hand, he grabs onto the edge of the pantry to keep from falling over. He paws through the contents with his other hand, fumbling for something - anything - that will keep him going.

His hand hits something, and he pulls out a box of cookies. It's a miracle. Food. Not protein bars or energy shakes. But actual food - and _cookies _to boot.

He rips the lid straight off the box with strength he didn't know he had. And he shoves the cookies into his mouth, one after another, barely chewing. The sweet taste fills his mouth, and he savors it, but he has to keep going. He needs _food_.

The next thing he knows, the box is empty and he's lying on the ground panting. He hasn't had this much food in him for a long time, much less something this rich, and he knows he'll be dog-sick before long. But it's worth it.

Who coined the phrase "sick as a dog" anyway, he wonders? Dogs have always seemed fairly healthy to him. And come to think of it, who coined the phrase "to coin a phrase"? What do coins have to do with words?

But he forgets all that the instant a green-gloved hand comes down on his own. "Drakken," the cold voice says. "I should have known."

Oh, no. He's in _so _much trouble. "Hi, Shego," he squeaks, bracing himself for the zap.

"What have I told you about eating junk food?" she snaps. "Huh?"

"Please, Shego." He hears the whine in his voice, and he's too shaky to try and stop it. "I just get so hungry after those workouts."

She doesn't zap him. Doesn't slap him. Doesn't even call him any mean names. Instead, she pulls a tape measure out of her pocket and leans in.

He winces, waiting to get knocked over the head with it. But she doesn't do that, either. She just measures his neck with it - why his _neck_? - and jots something down onto a piece of paper, murmuringunder her breath.

He feels uneasy.

Shego tucks the paper and the tape measure back into her pocket. "Well, too bad," she replies. "Cause guess what? Now you're gonna have to do another one. Gotta work those cookies off."

"I can't." He's not lying. He's sure his legs won't stand up anymore. "Shego, I can't."

"First of all, you will address me as 'The Supreme One.'"

Good grief, was he ever _that _arrogant?

"And secondly -" she suddenly stops and tilts her head like a little girl, and his throat catches. For a moment, she looks like the old Shego again. "There are a lot of rebels that would love nothing more than to rub me right out. You're my bodyguard." She pinches his nose between her knuckles, the way she used to do, back in the good old days, when she teased him. "I need you to be big and strong so you can protect me."

He swallows hard and nods. Shego may be cruel and hardened now, but she's still his - his family. And he still shudders at the idea of anyone "rubbing her right out." His hands go into fists. No one should even _touch _her.

"Okay," he mumbles. "I'll do it."

This, he knows, is not going to end well. _Cookies, I hardly knew ye._

He can't sleep anymore. Part of that, he knows, is because he's just plain uncomfortable. There's nothing soft left on his body.

So he's not really asleep when Shego yanks the covers off him and hollers, "Rise and shine, Little Boy Blue!"

He's not really little anymore. He hit the six-foot mark yesterday, and his face is so swollen he can see his own cheeks without a mirror.

And he knows why, too. It's the medicine. Part of him has been wondering for quite a while now just what kind of prescription Shego gave the people at the pharmacy.

But lately, he's slowly come to realize that denial isn't just a river on the planet Shego now controls. This - this is the kind of medicine you _can't _get a prescription for. The kind, he remembers hearing back in fifth grade, you aren't supposed to take.

He sighs. How is he supposed to "just say no" to someone who will probably kill him if he does?

Okay, he _really _doesn't feel good after thinking that. Because he knows it's true. If he does something bad enough, his former best friend will kill him.

He doesn't want to die today, so he jumps out of bed with a groan - he's gained so much weight so fast, his poor back can't keep up - and promptly trips over his own feet. His elbow whacks Shego's ribs as he grabs onto the side of the bed to keep from falling. If he falls all the way to the ground, there's not going to be any getting up again without a crane or something.

Shego jumps back and lets out a long stream of words that made him blush the first time he heard them. He's used to them now, though. Caught himself _using _some of them the other day.

"Sorry, She - uh, Oh, Supreme One," he catches himself. "My bad."

She hisses through her teeth, but she doesn't reach for the remote to the collar. That, at least, is good.

Shego makes him stand in the middle of the room and turn from side to side, examining him like she thinks he holds the cure for cancer. Then, without the slightest bit of warning, she reaches up and pulls his shirt off.

He yelps and jumps back. It's not exactly warm in his bedroom, and he starts to shiver. He reaches up to wrap himself into a hug to warm himself up, but he can't. His arms won't fit around his own shoulders anymore.

Fear, not cold, makes him tremble even harder. He's always liked the idea of being buff - but something's wrong here. He's not a mad scientist for nothing. He's read books about the body. His whole body - his bones, his joints, his muscles, his heart, his lungs - they're all made to support him the way he _was_. He's getting too big for himself.

And then Shego starts to prod his chest and belly with her hands. Her touch is firm and professional, scientific, like a doctor's. But there's something very, very wrong and uncomfortable about a girl touching him there.

He shoves her hands away without even thinking about it. "_Please_, Shego. . . " is all he can say.

She backs off then, at least with the touching. But she reaches behind her and pulls out a brown paper bag. "I got something for you, Dr. D."

The nickname makes him flinch, reminds him that the old Shego is still in there somewhere. "No more of those pills," he says in as firm a voice as he can manage, shaking his head. "They make me sick."

"Oh, no." Shego shakes her own head. The shine in her eyes makes his stomach feel like he's done a chemical experiment in it. "The pills don't work fast enough. I need results _now_. Besides, you were right the other day when you said you weren't - how did you put it - 'built to be buff'?" She stops and smirks at him. "So I had the guys at the lab whip up a surprise for you."

Shego reaches into the bag and pulls out a needle. A doctor's needle, and he can feel his own knees hitting each other. "Shego? What's in there?"

The needle gleams in the light as she advances. "Now, now," Shego scolds. "If I told you, it wouldn't be a surprise."

SLAM!

CRASH!

CRUNCH!

RESET . . . .

"Dinosaurs, Shego," he explains over lunch - her salad, his peanut-butter-and-pickle sandwich. "I still say using dinosaurs is the best idea!"

Shego stabs a lettuce leaf with her fork and raises her eyebrows at him. "Yeah, just one problem with that, Doc. Dinosaurs are a little bit extinct."

"I know." He takes a huge bite out of his sandwich and talks with his mouth full, even though he knows he's not supposed to. But, hey, what use is being a villain if you can't have bad table manners now and then? "And I asked all our villainous acquaintances if they knew of any time machines or anything, and they all said no."

"Bummer." Shego doesn't seem especially bummed.

"Well, Monkey Fist said he heard of this one thing called the Tempus Simia that was supposed to grant the user time travel powers, but it got broken a long time ago. . ."

Suddenly, everything goes wavy and the room spins, like somehow he's part of a giant TV that just got rewound. When things clear up again, he meets Shego's eyes.

"Did you feel that?" he asks.

"Yeah." Shego shakes her head. "Weird."

Oh, well, guess he's just not meant to use time travel. On to the next evil plan.

A shrink ray sounds good. . .

NOTES:

*The dinosaurs - Drakken's official profile on the Kim Possible website (the real deal, run by Disney) claims "giant dinosaurs" as one of his brilliant schemes. I don't remember dinosaurs in any of the episodes, so I put them in here as the impetus for Monkey Fist to remember the Tempus Simia.

*Drakken's growth spurt and its causes - He seems noticeably taller in the "Future" part of A Sitch in Time. Of course, his design fluctuates all the time (from tall to short, from fairly buff to pretty skinny), but, I figured, since Shego managed to turn him into The Incredible Hulk muscle-wise, she probably found a way to increase his height, too. And, yes, you did catch references to steroids - they can't mention it on Disney Channel, of course, but he looks almost exactly like pictures I've seen of athletes using them. . . right down to the puffier face. Would explain how much meaner he eventually got, too.

*The sound effects toward the end - That was the Tempus Simia breaking and setting everything right again. God bless your clumsiness, Ron. :)

*"Did you feel that?" - Kim and Ron experienced that at the end of A Sitch in Time, after the reset, so I imagine Drakken and Shego did too.


	14. Foreign

**Foreign**

"Oh, now _that's _appetizing."

He glances up from his donuts and his Destructo-Bot blueprints. He's pretty proud of himself for managing to work on both at once. Okay, so sometimes he bites his pencil, which doesn't taste very good, or tries to draw with the sprinkle-filled donut, which is kind of messy, but it's working out pretty well, all things considered.

But Shego looks annoyed, so something must be wrong. He glances around the room. No doomsday devices are destroying the kitchen. Nothing's on fire. Kim Possible isn't descending from the ceiling. "What?" he asks, since he can't see what's the problem.

Shego points. "Your socks. On the table. At _my _place." She raises her eyebrows at him.

Oh, that's where his socks got to. "Sorry about that," he mumbles, returning to his blueprints. Because he _is _sorry, but this is much more important. "You can move 'em if you want to."

Shego's eyebrows go even higher. "Dr. D., even _I _have my limits. Touching your sweaty socks is beyond them."

His feet were hot; so sue him. Sweeping his socks off the table in one not-too-clumsy (if he has to say so himself!) motion, he opens his mouth, waiting for a witty retort to come to him.

It doesn't. It's in his brain - somewhere - lost, with a flat tire. So all that comes out of his mouth is a burp. Not exactly a quiet one, either.

Shego whacks herself in the forehead so hard he flinches. It doesn't hurt, of course, but for some reason he always expects it to. "Lovely," she groans.

He squirms in his seat. He really doesn't like it when people are mad at him. Especially Shego, because she can throw him through the wall. Besides, he always gets a little itchy feeling whenever someone's unhappy with him.

So he smiles sheepishly at her. "Sorry," he explains. "But it's a natural digestive reaction to -"

Shego brings her head up and holds her hands into the time-out signal. "TMI, thank you!"

Too much information. He remembers that from his book of teen slang. "Sorry," he says for the third time in one-hundred-sixty seconds. "But villains don't have to have good manners, right?"

If Shego's eyebrows go up any farther, they'll go right off her face. He tilts his head to the side, trying to picture that. "Actually, Doc," she says, "there's a lot to be said for villains with class."

"Class?" he asks, wiping his milky mouth on his sleeve.

"Yeah, class." She grunts. "Like using a napkin."

Oh.

"Matter of fact, I think I'll introduce you to a classy villain I know," Shego continues. "You've heard of the Seniors, haven't you?"

He cocks his head to the other side, but his brain doesn't come up with any results matching the search word "Seniors." Of course, he has some trouble with names. . .

"I don't know," he admits.

"Older guy?" Shego holds her hand out about five-and-a-half feet from the ground. "Got a son, dude about my age?"

Oh, _now _he remembers! The kinda-old guy with all the money and the kid who smelled like hair gel. "Senor Senior, Senior, and Senor Senior, Junior," he announces triumphantly.

"Good job." Shego smirks. "I think we'll pay them a visit today."

__

Senor.

It's Spanish for something - "mister," he's pretty sure.

There's only one problem. He doesn't speak Spanish.

Oh, sure, he knows the basics. Like _adios _is "hello," and _hola _is "goodbye" and _paradox _is "two ducks."

But if these guys are Spanish, he needs to be able to do more than say hi and bye and talk about ducks. He scratches his chin in thought. He'll need to know important words, like "yes" and "no." Isn't "no" _nein_? No, that's German. He remembers that from Dementor.

Internet time!

He searches for a Spanish translator website and finds all kinds of cool stuff. _Azul _is "blue," _galleta _is "cookie." There are about fifteen different words for "evil," and they all sound so - professionalish that they give him the shivers, and makes him want to use them. He's _malvado_, which sounds so. . . well. . . evil.

He carefully scripts a conversation then, and runs his parts through the translator. When they come out in Spanish, he prints the page out and tucks it into his pocket.

Now he's ready to meet these Seniors.

Senior's a lot shorter than he thought he'd be, but there's something. . . solid about him. Like you could lean on him and he wouldn't fall over and drop you.

He sticks out his hand and grabs Senior's, shaking it as firmly as he can, trying to ignore how much bigger the other man's hands are. With his other hand, he reaches into his pocket and fumbles around, pulling his script out. _"Hola, amigo. Usted debe conocer a mi amigo. Querría usted ayudarme conquisto el mundo_?" he reads slowly and carefully.

Shego looks at him like he's nuts. Senior, on the other hand, smiles, making lines crinkle around his blue eyes. "Ah, Mr. Drakken," he says in a voice that sounds like potato chips being eaten. Even his voice sounds solid. "You are every bit as enthusiastic as Miss Shego said you were."

He feels his jaw about scrape the ground. "You speak English!"

"Yeah, and better than you do, I might add." Shego gives her eyes a disgusted roll. "Did you think he wouldn't?"

He closes his eyes and pictures the Destructo-Bot blueprints back on the kitchen table. Stupid people can't design Destructo-Bots, and right now he's feeling very, very close to a stupid person.

But Senior doesn't look at him like he's stupid. He just keeps smiling and shaking his hand. "Come on in, Mr. Drakken," he says politely.

"It's _Dr_. Drakken," he corrects him.

"Ah, yes. Forgive me." Senior leads the way into a huge, gleamy kitchen that's probably never had anything spilled on the floor. "Do you like juice boxes?"

He licks his chops, already tasting fruit punch. "Yes," he answers, careful to keep that evil smile on his face. Shego's unimpressed, he can tell.

"So, Dr. Drakken," Senior begins, handing him a juice box. "What are you currently working on?"

YES! He loves that question. "I am building a new line of destructive robots," he says, taking a deep breath, ready to blurt it all out. "I call them. . . Destructo-Bots!" He throws back his head and laughs evilly. On the way back, though, his hand hits the juice box and sends it flying.

Shego catches it .2 seconds before it hits the ground. "Nice going, Butterfingers."

He feels his cheeks go hot. He really would hate to be responsible for the first stain on that nice shiny floor. "Sorry," he whispers.

Senior gives a solid shrug. "Quite all right. Please, continue."

But before he can, there's a high-pitched shriek from outside, like the sound a Pixie Scout makes when you take her cookie money (if you're Shego) or her cookies (if you're him). That, or a rat getting its tail caught in a trap.

"That's Junior!" Shego yelps. Her eyes actually look worried, and that doesn't happen often.

Senior's already halfway out the door, and Shego's about two inches behind him, so it only feels right to follow. After all, the kitchen feels eerily big with just him in it.

A guy almost as big as his cousin Eddy is lying flat on his back on a raft in the middle of the pool, clinging to it for dear life. "A little help here," he whimpers.

He feels his eyebrow shoot up. Junior's voice sounds like his own did at age twelve. It seems out of place coming out of someone that huge.

Shego reaches a hand down into the pool and hauls Junior out. "You okay, sport?" she asks.

Junior nods, but he doesn't look happy. "Except now my _hair _is all wet!" he squeals. "And I had just finished coming the cowlicks out of it, too!"

Shego's lips twitch as she turns to him. "Hair care's important to Junior."

Apparently, and that's just _weird_. He fiddles awkwardly with his own ponytail. He can't even _count _all his cowlicks.

And who named them that, anyway? His hair might be messy, but not because a cow licked it. He's never been within ten yards of a cow in his life.

"Junior?" Senior's potato-chip voice snaps him back to here-and-now. "What happened, my son?"

His voice and eyes are soft, like a father's should be, he guesses. His chest gets tight. Sure must be nice to have such a good dad.

"Well - " Junior wiggles his shoulders around a little - "I was scanning the sky for any airplanes that might happen to be flying over our enormous private island. And then I saw one, but I could not tell if it was sufficiently stocked with anything for us to rob! So I was trying to climb to the roof for a closer look, but I became dizzy once I stepped off the ground, and I fell back into the pool! And messed up my hair!"

Is this guy for _real_? Suddenly he doesn't feel so stupid anymore.

Shego covers her mouth with her hands, but he can see the skin around it twitching. She's amused, but she doesn't want to show it. She - she doesn't want to hurt Junior's feelings?

"Did you know I am going to be a teen pop sensation?" Junior whirls on him now.

A what now? He didn't know that soda could even _be _teenaged. "No," is all he can say.

Junior blinks, as if he just now realizes that he doesn't know this guy. "Father, who is our guest?" he asks.

Senior puts a hand on his arm. "Junior, this is Dr. Drakken. He is Miss Shego's employer."

"Ohhh." Junior nods. "Pleased to meet you, Dr. Drakken!" He slaps him on the back - hard.

It _hurts_, and he yelps. And kind of falls flat on his face into the pool in the process.

The water's cold and it's deep and he's not the world's best swimmer and his back's throbbing. He thrashes his hands around, trying to grab onto water that keeps slipping through his fingers because it's liquid and you can't hold liquids, except he's forgotten that in his panic. "SHEGO!" he hollers.

There's a sound like an alley cat engaging in a fight with a chalkboard, which he's sure must be Junior shrieking. Just as his head starts to disappear under the water and even worse panic starts to set in, two sets of hands grab him. They're both strong, and they pull him right out of the pool.

He's safe.

"And once the world leaders are cowering in fear of the Destructo-Bots, I shall rule the world!" It doesn't quite have the same effect, because he can't throw back his head and laugh. His hands are warm and toasty on the mug of hot cocoa Junior brought him (while apologizing twenty-five times), and he doesn't want to lose the soft towel Senior wrapped him in.

Senior nods. "Sounds like a very clever plan. Unfortunately, I have no plans of my own at the time - villainy is more of a hobby for me, you see."

He takes a sip of the cocoa and nods. And sneezes.

"We probably better getchya home," Shego interrupts. "Have you get into some dry clothes before you catch your death of cold."

He wipes his nose on his sleeve. "What are you, my mother?"

Shego snorts. "Some days I wonder."

Senior reaches over and helps him to his feet. "Some other day, we shall discuss this further. When you get those Destructo-Bots running - "

"_If _he ever does - " Shego mutters.

" - perhaps you could send one or two over," Senior finishes. "I would like that very much."

Despite his dripping-wet clothes, he feels warm and dry inside. Someone wants one of his doomsday devices for themselves! Someone thinks he has a clever plan! Someone is being nice to him!

He grins from ear to ear as he follows Shego out the door. "_Adios, mi amigo_!" he calls over his shoulder.

Senior smiles back, making those cool crinkles around his eyes again. He hopes he gets some of those when he's old. They make him look so distinguishfied. "Goodbye, my friend."

Note: The Spanish that Drakken fired at Senior when they first meet roughly translates to, "Hello, friend. I believe you know my sidekick. Would you like to help me conquer the world?" . .. at least, that's what I ran through the translator website. :)


	15. Sorrow

NOTE: Sensitive types, get a tissue. Otherwise you'll hate me.

And I had him still be in solitary at this point, because having Lucre here would totally ruin the scene. :)

**Sorrow**

Flash. Flash. Blink. Flash. Flash. Blink.

Outside the window, the red lights of an electrical tower flash and blink like a lighthouse in the middle of land. On and off, on and off, like they're leading somebody home.

He sighs air all the way up from his toes. He sure wishes they were leading _him _home.

Slowly, shakily, he manages to roll over, staring at the shadows on the ceiling. Every couple minutes they change shape, so what looked like a bunny (an evil, fire-breathing bunny of doom, of course, he corrects himself) a little while ago now looks like a mushroom on top of a bicycle. And it doesn't even have feet to reach the pedals.

He can't sleep. And that's why he's watching the shadows. He's tired, but every time he closes his eyes, images pop into his mind - people screaming, "Run for your lives!" and then doing just that. Giant Diablos with their laser arms that he was so proud of at the time. The little girl with the pigtails.

And, of course, Shego getting kicked into the electrical tower. That's the one haunting his brain tonight, maybe because of the flashes outside the window. The instant his eyes shut, he sees her get kicked into the tower over and over and over.

That makes him feel like something's eating him from the inside out. Like he swallowed a live rat or something without knowing it, which he knows isn't scientifically possible. Now, a tapeworm, _that's _scientifically possible. . .

The call finally came last night. He's finally getting a visitor. His mother.

And she has to know by now. She has to have figured out he's not the goody-two-shoes radio talk show host he always told her he was.

Finally, he can't stand it anymore. He's not sure what hour of the night it is, but he's lonely. And kind of scared.

He eases himself out of bed and wobbles over to the bars, concentrating on putting his feet in a straight line, one after the other. _Don't fall, Drakken_, he tells himself sternly. _Don't fall. _

A flashlight cuts through the darkness, and in its light he can see a guard wandering up and down the hall. For some reason, that makes him feel safer. He's not the only human being in the world awake right now. He's not completely alone.

"Psst!" he hisses.

The guard whips around and shines the flashlight right on him, hurting his eyes. "You should be asleep."

He _knows _that. "I can't sleep," he explains.

The guard squints in the dim light. "What's the matter?"

"My stomach." He sags against the bars in spite of himself. "It hurts a lot."

"Oh. That's too bad."

The calmth in the guard's voice makes the hair stand up on the back of his neck in anger. How can he be calm when everything is falling apart? He stomps a foot on the floor with the little bit of strength left in him. "Can't you get me some medicine or something?"

The guard shakes his head. "Sorry, no can do, pal. There's all kinds of legal junk involved in giving you medicine."

His chest feels like it's screwed on too tight from desperation. "Not even some Pepto-Bismol?" He hears the quiver in his own voice, and he hates it, but there's nothing he can do.

The guard puts down his flashlight and rubs the sides of his head, like he's thinking really hard. "Tell you what. I can stop by the kitchen; see if we have any 7-Up or something. Okay?"

He's too tired to argue anymore, so he just nods.

The 7-Up the guard brings him does calm his stomach down a little, and that makes his eyes feel heavier. He doesn't remember falling asleep, but the next thing he knows he's waking up, so he must have.

"Oh, good, you're up," says the guard. Or maybe it's a different one, he can't really tell them apart. "Your mother's here."

All the wetness disappears from his mouth and goes into his palms. "Already?" he squeaks.

"Yep." The guard opens the cell door. "Normally, we have a conference room for this, ma'am," he says over his shoulder, "but since he's sick, we'll make an exception."

He pushes himself up into a sitting position, head spinning, heart pounding. This is it. Everything he knows is about to change.

Mother walks in then, seeming even smaller than usual next to the huge guards. "What an awful place," she mutters. "Do you know how much security I had to go through," she says to one of the guards, "before they let me bring in a hairbrush and some Kleenexes?" She opens her purse to prove it.

The guard only nods. His mother's eyes fall on him, and they fill up immediately.

His own throat chokes. If she cries, he's going to lose it. Have a nervous breakdown right there on the floor and not stop until they drag him off to that psyche ward Shego's always saying he belongs in.

"You _are _sick, aren't you?" she demands. He closes his eyes for a minute, and he feels her hand against his forehead. It's a safe feeling, one that makes him wish he were sprawled out on the couch, watching cartoons on a home-sick-from-school day.

He tries to swallow the lump away, but it doesn't work. "I think it's just a stomach bug. I'm not that sick." Actually, he's never felt worse in his life, but he's not going to say that. Mother doesn't need something else to worry about.

There's a long, awkward silence.

"So -" he coughs - "you saw the news." It's not a question. He can't make it a question. His heart will snap right in half if he makes it a question.

"I did," Mother replies. Her black-button eyes snap. "Drewbie, I don't know who framed you, but I'm not going to rest until I find out!"

No. That's not what's she supposed to say. Everything in him wants to play along, to say, "That's good, Mother. Go ahead and find them, because I'm a good boy."

But those words are incompatible with his mouth right now. What comes out instead is, "I wasn't framed."

Mother's mouth falls open a little. "What do you mean?"

He takes a deep breath, wishing he had time to rehearse for this moment. Of course, there's probably no right way to say this anyway. "Mother, that really was me, trying to take over the world. And it's not the first time I've tried it. I'm a supervillain."

He squeezes his eyes shut again and waits. Waits for her to slap him across the face and tell him what a horrible son he is and stomp off in disgust, so he can finally - finally! - stop feeling so guilty. Waits for her to give him what he deserves.

Instead, she presses her lips to his forehead. "Drewbie, honey, you must have a fever. You're hallucinating."

He shakes his head so hard it feels like it's going to come off. "No. No. No." This isn't what's supposed to happen. "I'm not hallucinating, okay? I'm evil! Ask anybody! Ask the guards! Ask any of the other prisoners! Ask Shego! Ask Kim Possible! I'm a villain!" His throat feels raw, like he's scraped it, and he tastes tears running into his mouth.

Mother takes several steps backward, eyes wide like she's just seen the boogeyman. "Is this true?" she whispers to the guard.

The guard nods, head down.

He waits again. Sure enough, when he looks up again, her eyes are blazing.

But she still doesn't do what she's supposed to. "This is Eddy's fault, isn't it? He corrupted you!"

She's not supposed to blame other people! "No, it's not," he answers. "I was a supervillain before he ever got arrested."

Mother wrings her hands together, little like his. "Then it's that girl - what's her name? She led you down the wrong path!"

"It's not Shego's fault!" he barks back. "I put out an ad for an evil sidekick, and she answered! She didn't do it, either."

Now she has to understand. _Has _to.

But when he glances at her again, she's staring down at the floor. "Then - is this my fault, Drewbie? Have I been a bad mother?"

His face crumples. He feels it, and he can't stop it. Everything tangles together in his mind, until all he can say is the truth. "No."

Because she hasn't been. Overly clingy and obnoxious, yes. Embarrassing, sure. Bad, no.

"You've - you've been great," he gets out. "Really. I'm just evil, that's all. Sheer evil." He makes his shaky shoulders shrug. "Guess I'm just a bad egg. It happens."

And then he completely surprises himself by burying his face in his pillow and bawling his eyes out.

He keeps waiting, waiting to hear her shoes tapping away, to hear the door slam, for justice to finally be served. But what he hears is a "Shhh," and what he feels is a hand rubbing his back.

"Why can't you go away?" he wails into the pillow. "Why can't you just go away and stop loving me? Then at least I won't feel so bad!"

Mother turns him over then - she's a lot stronger than she looks. Taking his chin in one hand, she tilts it up. "Look at me," she says. Her voice is so firm that he doesn't dare try not to. "I said I would love you forever, no matter what."

"But that - that was before." His hands start to fidget with one of her earrings, because they're too nervous to stay still.

"It doesn't matter." Her eyes shine a little. "I meant what I said, and I said what I meant. An elephant's faithful, one hundred percent."

He wipes his nose on his sleeve. "You're not an elephant."

Mother actually laughs. "Drewbie, that's from Dr. Seuss. Don't you remember?"

Vaguely. "But - don't you see?" he begins.

And she nods. "I see my son in the worst pain of his life," she answers. "How can I walk away from that?"

He shoves his entire fist in his mouth to keep from crying again. He never - never, _ever _- expected her to react this way. He would have predicted she'd be a screaming, hysterical mess by this point. She's being so calm, it scares him.

And she still loves him. He can't even believe that. How can she still love him?

"But," he gets another gulp around the lump in his throat, "what about your friends? After Eddy got arrested, a bunch of people stopped being friends with _his _mom."

Mother gently pries her earring out of his fingers, like he's a grabby toddler. "She learned who her real friends were. And so will I."

"Wow," he can't help but say.

"Though -" Mother plants her hands on her hips - "when you get out of here, you can consider yourself grounded."

_Ooh._ His stomach starts to roll again. "I'm not getting out, Mother," he whispers to the floor. "I got a life sentence."

incompatible with his mouth right now. What comes out instead is, "I wasn't framed."

Her eyes go wider than he thought humanly possible, and she jumps to her feet. "Excuse me for a minute," she says to the guard.

And bolts, but not before he sees the tears in her eyes.

She's not calm, he realizes. She's going off to the bathroom to have a crying fit. She was just holding it together for him.

That's just very messed-up.

"I can't believe I did this to her," he whispers to no one in particular.

The guard hears, though. "Oh, pal," he grunts. "If I know mothers, I know what she's wishing right now with all her heart."

"That I'd never been born?" he guesses.

"Nope." The guard leans down. "That she could take your place."

Goosebumps break out on his arms. He knows the guard's right.

When Mother comes back, her eyes are puffy and red and there's eyelash-makeup (whatever it's called. . .) all down her cheeks. She reaches into her purse, but instead of the Kleenexes he expects, she pulls out the hairbrush.

"At least let me brush that beautiful hair of yours," she murmurs.

He blinks in confusion. His hair's not beautiful. It's choppy and tangled, jagged from his last done-at-home haircut and greasy from not being washed in over a week. You can't use the prison showers when you can barely stand up.

Plus, his mother never liked the long-hair-on-men thing. Said it was for hippies. About hit the ceiling when Eddy grew his out.

But she doesn't breathe a word about his - what did Eddy call it? - baby mullet. She just takes the rubber band out of it and sits there, gently working the brush through the knots, humming the whole time, some song about a baby who shouldn't cry because her mother's going to buy her a bunch of expensive stuff that no baby could ever do anything with.

It's a stupid song, but something about the way she hums it makes him start to cry again.

The door creaks open, and the guard points to his watch. "Time's up, ma'am," he says quietly.

He wishes he were still in kindergarten, so he could cling to her leg and absolutely refuse to let go. He decides to settle for a moan.

Mother pulls out a Kleenex then. Her own eyes are streaming, but she wipes his instead. He shivers, because in that instant he knows there's something here - something far bigger and deeper than the both of them.

"I'll visit again as soon as I can, Drewbie," she whispers. She leans over and wraps him into a hug, and for the first time in a long time, he doesn't pull away. "We'll get through this somehow. I promise."

"Okay," is all he can say.

She brushes one stray spike of hair out of his eyes. "I love you so much."

He knows there's a proper response to that, but he can't think of it. So he closes his eyes and just says what he feels.

"Thank you."


	16. Happiness

**Happiness**

__

__

Chocolate. Vanilla. Strawberry. Cookies and cream. Chocolate chip. Banana split. Butter pecan. Double chocolate chunk. . .

He gives his mouth a quick swipe on his sleeve before any drool can run out. That wouldn't be very good manners.

But - ugh! There are so many choices that his head is already spinning. His eyes keep jumping back and forth from one delicious-looking flavor to the next, and he's convinced that each one _must _be the one he wants. The instant he decides he wants a banana split, he sees how chocolatey and. . . well, _good _double chocolate chunk looks.

_Pick me! Pick me!_ each sample cries. He doesn't want to hurt any of their feelings by not choosing them.

He shakes his head against that thought. Ice cream doesn't have feelings. It's made from frozen milk and thickened by alginic acid, so it's not a living being.

There are only a couple of other people in the ice cream shop besides him - a boy and a girl, sitting in the corner. The girl keeps dipping her spoon into her sundae and sticking it in the boy's mouth. He doesn't know why. She doesn't look _nearly _old enough to be his mother. Matter of fact, they look about the same age.

"Can't I have two of everything?" he begs.

The lady behind the counter shakes her head. "Sorry, hon," she says. "Our maximum is three scoops." She smiles at him then. "Even for our best customer."

He smiles back at her, because he likes being smiled at. People have been smiling at him a lot this past year. It's a strange, new sensation, but one that feels pretty good.

He reaches into his pocket and feels the dollar bill and two quarters. Each scoop is fifty cents, so he has enough for exactly three scoops. And, oh man, does he want them.

_Yes,_ he answers himself. _Yes, I do want them._

But he suddenly remembers the advice Shego gave him a while back. _"Well, Mr. Scientist,"_ she said, _"how about this? Imagine you've got a meter on your stomach that shows how empty or full you are - like a gas tank or whatever kind of machine you wanna picture. Every now and then, just stop and think about where that meter is."_

He stops and ponders that, closing his eyes so the wonderful sight of the ice cream can't distract him from his goal. He's already had dinner, so he'd put himself at about seventy-percent full. His stomach's not growling, but it's not quite full, either. Two scoops would probably fill him right up.

He feels himself sag with disappointment. _Two scoops? But I want three!_

The flavors dance into his head even though he's got his eyes closed. Tricky little rascals. There are so many that just picking even three would be bad enough. But _two_?

He can almost smell the chocolatelyness of the double chocolate chunk, taste the strawberry on his taste buds. But then he remembers how he felt last time he got three scoops when his stomach said two.

He takes a deep breath, reaches into his pocket, and pulls out just the dollar bill. In his firmest voice, he says, "Two scoops. One double chocolate chunk, one strawberry."

The lady behind the counter nods and grabs the scooper-spoon. "You got it."

"Wait!" he hollers as a Very Important Thought strikes him. "You need to put the double chocolate chunk on the bottom, because I want that to be the taste that lingers!"

The lady smiles at him again, like he's four or something. Doesn't she know how very important the order of ice-cream flavors are? If the double-chocolate-chunk flavor got lost to the strawberry flavor, that would just mess everything up! "I think we can manage that."

So he gets his cone and wanders around the restaurant, licking at it. Ahh, this is the life. Makes him wonder why he didn't give up villainy a lot sooner.

"Hi, Drakken," a familiar voice says.

His eyes fall on the boy and girl sitting at the booth in the corner. It's _them_.

He gasps out of habit. "Kim Possible!"

She rolls her eyes, and he realizes what he's just done. "Oh, right," he says, smacking himself in the forehead with one ice-creamy hand. "That's how I used to greet you when I was a villain. Let me try it again."

"Um -" Kim starts, but he doesn't listen. He walks into the men's restroom, smiles his biggest smile into the mirror, and walks back out again, waving.

"Hi, Kim," he says happily. Another thought jumps into his brain as he takes a swipe of strawberry. "Can I call you Kim?"

Kim shrugs. "I don't see why not."

"Dr. D!" the boy next to her cries, holding up his hand. Now that he knows what to do with, so he high-fives him.

"Remember my name this week?" the boy asks.

Ohhhhhh. He runs his tongue all the way around the length of the cone - he _loves _doing that! - and tries desperately to match the boy's face to any of the names floating around in his mind. "Is it. . . Rob?" he guesses.

The boy keeps grinning. "Close, real close," he prompts. "It's Ron. Ron Stoppable."

Right. He takes another lick. At least he was closer this time. "So - " he plops down next to Ron and grins at them - "how have you guys been?"

"Fine." Kim shifts in her seat, twirling her ice cream with her spoon. "Um, Drakken, we're a little bit on a date right now."

"Okay." He takes a nibble off the cone. "That's nice."

"Like a boyfriend-and-girlfriend date," Kim continues.

"Yeah, she's the girlfriend and I'm the boyfriend," Ron adds.

He nods and keeps smiling. Young love - so cute.

Kim finally coughs. "As in, a girlfriend-and-boyfriend-and-no-reformed-mad-scientist date," she says.

"Oh." That sinks in slowly. He's a reformed mad scientist, so that must mean they want him to leave. He can take a hint. "Okay."

He gets up, kind of embarrassed now. "Have a good . . . date."

Kim smiles then. "Bye."

He takes another slurp of ice cream - ooh, he's getting down to the double chocolate chunk! - and flings open the door of the shop to go home. Only when he sees a pair of shoes does he realize he's about to run straight into somebody.

He quickly jumps in the other direction, right out of the path of. . . oh, great. Dr. James Possible.

He and James don't hate each other anymore, but they're not exactly the best of friends, either. He never really knows what to say to the man.

So he goes with something safe. "Hi."

James shifts from one foot to the other. "Hello, Drew." His eyes dart a little. "Is is Drew or Drakken?"

He heroically stops a drip of ice cream from dropping off the cone as he considers that. People associate the name Drew with a nice person, but he's working on fixing the name Drakken so they'll do the same thing with _it_, too. "Either one," he finally says.

"Oh." James hooks his thumbs into his belt.

A light bulb comes on over his head. Well, not really. It's not possible for a light bulb to materialize out of nowhere and light up. It's just an expression that means he realizes something. "You're spying, aren't you?"

James raises an eyebrow at him. "Spying?"

He nods seriously. "On Kim and her date. Ron." He mentally congratulates himself for remembering Ron's name.

James actually smiles. Okay, so it's only with one side of his mouth, but it's better than nothing. "I suppose. It's how we fathers are - we just get protective."

He feels his forehead wrinkle, and he can see his eyebrow lowering. "I don't think Ron's going to hurt her," he says.

The smile goes away, and James folds his hands into fists. "Yes, but old habits die hard. The thought of any boy making her unhappy or - getting the wrong ideas - it just makes me want to - to -"

"Strap them on a doomsday device and turn it on high?" he suggests, licking his cone.

James unfolds his clenched fists. "I was going to say launch him on a one-way deep space probe, but that works, too." His eyebrows raise again. "Wait, how would _you _know? You don't even have a daughter."

He shrugs. "Not biologically."

"Ah." James meets his eyes for a minute, and he lets his smile go all the way. For the first time ever, he knows they're feeling the same thing.

"Well, bye." He waves and skips off, and he doesn't even care how he looks doing it. Because, really, why shouldn't he skip? He has ice cream. He's had friendly conversations with not one, but three of his old enemies. He doesn't have to be chased by shadows in the night anymore, because he's reformed and forgiven.

He sighs happily. Right now, he's lovin' life.


	17. Under the Rain

**Under the Rain**

He sprawls out on the couch, aimlessly flipping channels, searching for anything decent - a documentary on secret government weapons, maybe, or even just an episode of _Spider-Man_. He can barely hear the pitter-patter of rain against the windows over his own whirling thoughts.

__

"Drakken. Ugh. You just don't know when to give up, do you?"

Kim Possible's words ring in his mind. She really shouldn't sass her elders like that.

"Yes, I do know when to give up," he hisses to the empty lair, to block out the silence that always comes after Shego leaves. He doesn't like the silence. "Once the world is under my control, I can give up trying to conquer it!"

He lets those words hang in the air for a moment. They sound good, and that makes his chest puff out with pride.

But Kim Possible's taunting sentence keeps playing over and over, like a broken record - or. . . whatever it is teenagers use nowadays to listen to their music. CD players?

No, even _those _are past now. It's those weird little MP3 players with the earbuds that are about as small as mind-control chips.

He sits up so fast he falls off the couch as an idea strikes him. A perfectly terrible, awful, wonderful idea. "THAT'S IT!" he hollers, pausing to swipe sweat off his forehead. Man, it's hot in here. He should turn the heat down.

"I SHALL FIND A WAY TO SCRAMBLE THE CIRCUITS OF EVERY MP3 PLAYER IN THE WORLD WITH MY MIND-CONTROL CHIPS! AND THEN I WILL CONTROL THE MINDS OF EVER TEEN ON THE PLANET! THEY WILL DO MY BIDDING!" he yells as loud as he can. _Take that, silence. I can be as loud as you can be quiet._

Commodore Puddles lets out a howl from the kitchen, and he flinches. Okay, maybe he's being a bit _too _loud. Sure enough, once he stops yelling, his own ears are ringing.

And he. . . is. . . hot. Not "hot" like "awesome," the way the teens say. "Hot" as in "uncomfortably warm." He's never understood, exactly, why today's kids use "cool" and "hot" to mean basically the same thing. English is confusing enough for him, let alone Teen Slang.

Another idea pops into his brain then, and he jumps up, jogging around the coffee table, pumping his arms frantically until the idea straightens itself out into words. He has to do that a lot. The ideas come in sheer excitement first, and _then _words, because words aren't exactly his specialty. . . ness . . . ism.__

Whoa. Dizzy. Gotta stop running.

He flops back onto the couch, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to stop feeling like the inside of his head is on a merry-go-round. It doesn't usually take him too long to undizzify, but tonight he sits there for what feels like hours, feeling his heartbeat up in his head. It's a bizarre scientific phenomenon, and it doesn't feel so good.

"Okay," he says once the room is right-side-up again. "I will find a way to speak this mysterious language known as 'Teen Slang.' That way, the teenagers will be even _more _eager to do my bidding!" He can't resist an evil chortle at the end of that sentence - he likes that word, _chortle _- because it's just so brilliant. Learning to speak the enemy's language so that they can better infiltrate their minds is villainy at its finest.

Plus, they need to think he's pretty darn cool if they're going to listen to him at all. Teens don't usually listen to - to -

How old _is _he?

He feels his eyebrow folding in over his nose (can see it, too) as he carefully unfolds his fist and counts the years forward on his fingers. It takes longer than he would've hoped - a few trips around both hands.

__

Holy moly - I'm forty.

Weird. When he was little, that sounded so old. Heck, it _still _sounds old. But he always thought forty-year-old men would have the cosmic wisdom of the ages or something.

He grunts to himself. If he does, the cosmic wisdom of the ages isn't all it's cracked up to be.

Sure, he's a genius - but a scientist-genius, not a person-with-a-long-gray-beard-who-sits-right-on-top-of-a-mountain-and-gives-advice-genius. That's okay, though. That kind of occupation looks like it would hurt your posterior.

He places his hands on his cheeks and feels the warmth through his gloves. Okay - he needs to cool off right now.

__

Pitter-patter. Pitter-patter. Pitter-patter.

His head comes up, and he whips it around. What's that noise? Is someone invading his secret haunted island lair? The one Kim Possible somehow always finds?

Oh. It's just the rain.

The third great idea in twenty minutes hits him. Rain's cool. Rain's nice and cool.

Nice and cool and _wet_. His mouth feels really dry.

"Hold my calls," he mutters to Commodore Puddles, opens the lair door, and walks out. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he realizes that he just told a poodle puppy to hold his calls. Something's wrong with that statement - somehow. But he can't quite put his finger on what.

He forgets all that, though, the instant the rain smacks his face in wonderfully cold drops, running down his cheeks, dripping off his chin, soaking through his coat. _Ahhhhhhhhh. . . .that's better._

He raises his head, and his hair-spikes, which are already soaking wet, drip water into his eyes so he can't see. But his tongue is still able to come out of his mouth and let rain plop onto it, smooth and cool and sweet.

Funny. He's never thought of water as having much of a taste, but when his mouth is that dry, it's better than cookies.

He licks his chops and then just stands there, head still tilted up, letting the rain trickle down his face. It feels like a bath somehow, like he's getting cleaned off. Baths are interesting things. He doesn't realize how dirty he felt until he notices how clean he is now.

He's sure that, somehow, he just had a very deep thought.

He doesn't know how long he stays like that, washing off in the rain, before he suddenly starts to shake. Great. Now he's too cold - except for his head, which now feels like magma is inside it. He tried to take over

Wisconsin with magma once. But Kim Possible stopped him using her magic fairy powers. . .

Whoa. Whoa. Whoa. He grabs the doorknob and leans against the door. Kim Possible doesn't have magic fairy powers, he reminds himself. She's just some sassy teenage girl who thinks she's all that . . . .

_I need to go to bed_, his brain manages to tell him.

_No, duh_, he answers. Great. Now he's starting to talk like - that one girl who works for him. With the green hair and the black skin. . . .

His thoughts are cut off by a horrible rattling sound as he turns the doorknob. He raises a foot and kicks the door, but it doesn't help. It's _locked_.

He can't get out. No, he is out. He needs to get - in.

_I guess - I guess I'll just wait for - for - for - Shego. _That's her name! Shego! She'll help. She always helps.

He gingerly lowers himself to the ground, planting his posterior on a square of concrete that doesn't have a puddle on it. He can't hear the rain anymore over the sound of dozens and dozens of bees buzzing around in his head. His very, very _warm _head.

His eyelids droop lower - and lower - and lower -

"Uh, Dr. D.? This is why beds were invented."

His eyes snap open to sunlight and Shego. "Shego?" he gets out around a thick throat.

"Good morning to you, too, sunshine," Shego says in that dry voice of hers. Oh, shouldn't have said "dry". His mouth is sticking to itself again.

She points. "Any good reason why you're sleeping with your head in a potted plant?"

Well, he's not technically sleeping anymore. He brings his head up and squints. Yep, Shego was right. He has the mud on his cheeks and the crick in his neck and the ache in his back to prove it.

"Dude." Shego squats down and examines him. "Have you been playing with your mom's makeup or something? Your face is all red."

No. It's blue. And his mom lives far, far away. None of this makes any sense, so he just squeaks, "MP3 players."

"MP3 players?" Shego plants her hands on her hips. "What are you, the king of the non sequitur?"

All that comes out of his mouth is a noise like a dog chewing gravel. But it's enough, because he feels a hand - a nice, _cool _hand - on his forehead.

"Ooh, crud," Shego says through the too-warm blur. "You're burning up."

"I locked myself out last night, Shego," he whispers hoarsely. "In the rain. In the cold." It wasn't actually that cold, but saying the word _cold _makes him feels a little less like he's on fire. He sure hopes Shego doesn't actually mean he's burning up for real. He hasn't prepared an amazing death speech yet.

"And you caught something nasty," Shego concludes. "Ugh, were you Charlie Brown in a former life or something?"

"I felt weird before that," he corrects her. "I think."

"Should I even ask how you managed to lock yourself out of your own lair?" Shego's voice is disapproving, and he shrinks back. He _hates _being disapproved of.

"No," he croaks. And before she can get any weird ideas of doting on him - Shego doesn't seem like the doting type, but girls get weird when he doesn't feel well - he adds, "I'm not really sick." He puffs out his chest manly-ly. "My immune system. . . "

He suddenly feels a weird little tingle that starts right below his eyes and creeps down, down, down, until the next thing he knows, he's sneezed all over himself and that poor potted plant. Shego jumps back just in time.

". . . would put a third-world child's to shame," she finishes his sentence for him. "Come on, in you go."

He jumps to his feet and promptly collapses into the door. "Thego?" he mumbles into the metal.

"Pathetic," he hears Shego mutter. "Absolutely pathetic."

She grabs his hands and tows him inside and has him "park it" on the couch. He doesn't realize until she carelessly tosses a blanket over him how bad he's still shaking.

Through his blur, he hears a girl's voice say, "So, are you - you know, okay? I mean, would you survive if I went into a different room?"

He doesn't know what other girl would be here while he's sprawled out on the couch, home from school sick. "Yes, Mommy," he answers.

The girl snorts. "Man, I wish I had that on tape."

He rolls over and falls asleep. And dreams of wonderful, cleaning rain.

Note: Because everyone should have the pleasure of writing for feverish Drakken at least once, XD.


	18. Hold My Hand

**Hold My Hand**

Oh, joy. Dementor and those guys are here. There are no _words _for how wonderful this is.

She sighs silently and slinks past them - they don't even glance her way. That's good, at least, but before long, they are gonna be demanding to know why she helped save the world.

She turns a corner and heads down a long, narrow hallway, toward a huge closed door at the end of it. Hanging on the door is a sign so big she can read it from all the way down the hall.

****

PRIVATE: KEEP OUT. AUTHORIZED AMBASSADORS AND APPROVED GUESTS ONLY.

Yep. That's the place. She walks faster, excuses for last week's heroic endeavor already running through her mind.

__

Temporary insanity.

I became suddenly possessed by the spirit of Wonder Woman.

I'm allergic to aliens.

Or she could just blame the Doc. That usually works.

Of course, why should she care what they think, anyway? She doesn't answer to anybody. She rolls her shoulders back and lets her hackles up. She'll save the world if she wants to save the world (which she _doesn't_). If they got a problem with that, tough.

Not to mention, she realizes indignantly, they really don't have any right to be upset with her. _Good grief, since I saved the world, I wound up saving all your sorry -_

That thought disappears once she turns the doorknob and walks into the room as an "approved guest." Drakken's already there, pacing the floor, hands tangled behind his back, head down like a chicken scouring the ground for seed. There's a high-pitched sound coming out of his mouth, and she can't tell if he's giggling or crying. He's definitely Drakken-nervous.

She shakes her head. She's in her best dress, and he's just wearing his lab coat, rumpled from being slept in the night before. Honestly, the man has _no _social skills whatsoever.

But she lets her hackles back down anyway with a sigh. Believe it or not, this is the kind of thing she'd _miss _if aliens had dismembered him. Weird.

She walks in and smirks at him, a smirk that, without her consent, worms itself into a smile. Even weirder - feels like her mouth is being stretched far beyond its limits. "Dr. D., you're wearin' a path."

Drakken spins around at the sound of her voice, and upon seeing her, he lights up. Literally. The ponytail springs up, and his eyes look like two flashlight beams. "Shego, you came!" he yelps joyfully.

Good grief, he sounds like she's fixed all the world's problems just by stepping into the room. Not a bad ego booster.

If she deserved it, it would be even better.

_Sorry, you can't come in. We're closed_, she tells that unwelcome train of thought. After all, if traveling thousands of lightyears into space and tangling with the Not-So-Jolly Green Giants just to save him isn't evening the score, what is?

"Of course I came," she says lightly, dropping into a chair. She folds one leg across the other, deliberately leaving one long, sharp heel poking out. That should serve as a warning to everyone she hasn't lost her edge yet. "Why wouldn't I?"

Drakken blinks, and she knows that hit his brain and bounced right off. While he tilts his head, trying to process it, she points at his coat and adds, "_That's_ what you're wearing?"

He nods so hard, for a second she honestly worries his head's gonna pop off. "Well, yeah. I don't have a tuxedo or anything like that."

Her hackles completely smooth out at that. The mental image of Drakken in a tux is just too hilarious.

"But did it have to be the same thing you slept in?" she retorts, fighting to keep a grin off her face.

He tilts his head to the other side, looking like he's never seen her before in his life. "You're. . . wearing a dress," he offers instead of answering, voice curling into bewilderment.

She snickers. "Good job. Your observational skills are improving."

Drakken brings his shoulders nearly up to his ears, which are pinning back like he's part dog. "Well - you - look nice."

Ah. The little charmer.

He shoves a hand back through his hair, messing it up further. His eyes stay fixed on her, though, lost and frightened, like a baby bird who's trying to decide whether or not to leap out of the nest.

Great. Now this is just getting sappy.

Well - if she has to play Mama Robin to Dr. D, she has three options here.

1. She can carry him around on her back for the rest of her life and do the flying for him. _No._

2. She can throw him out of the nest and hope he learns to fly before he hits the ground. _Tempting, but _- she glances back at those eyes - _no._

3. Or she can teach him how.

Sighing, she pats the chair next to her. "C'mon, sit down."

Drakken shakes his head so quickly he looks like a movie on fast-forward. "I can't. Shego, I can't. I'm too excited." He brings both hands up to his mouth and hyperventilates into them. It's a good thing she got here before he passed out.

She leans forward in the chair and parks her elbows on her knees. "So, what's your deal?"

He flings his arms out so dramatically he nearly goes over backwards. His eyes are darting, and the skin under them is doing their I'm-about-to-cry thing. "What's my deal? I just don't think I can do this!"

Oh, for crying out loud. Drakken's saved the world - and now he's thinking he can't walk across the stage and accept a medal. What _is _his deal?

She closes her eyes for a split second, picturing the first time she ever saw him. He didn't look too different - he seemed taller, but maybe that was because she wasn't wearing heels like she is now. Wasn't as skinny as he is now. Maybe his hair was a little shorter. . .

Anyway, she never would have thought he was capable of saving the world. Of course, two weeks ago, she wouldn't have thought he was, either.

And if he can do that, what else can he do that no one knows about? Not even _he _knows about?

She nods at him. "Doc, look. If you can save the world, what's walking across a stage and saying a couple words?"

Drakken's eyes bulge, Chihuahua-style. "There are like five billion people out there, Shego!"

She snorts. "Exaggeration. Probably only about five million."

The blueness drains from his face entirely, and she realizes that probably wasn't the right thing to say. "Not helping," he hisses, bringing a hand to his middle. "My stomach's nervous."

She backs away slowly. No matter what else happens, he is _not _going to chuck on her best dress.

But she knows something that'll make him feel better. Crouching down next to him, she adds, "Look, look, you've got powers, dude! You can take over the world now!"

She waits for him to start bouncing off the walls with excitement, to grab her hands and jump up and down like a kid on a trampoline. But, instead, his face twists and flinches and works up to something she isn't sure she's ready to hear. The last couple days have been chaotic enough -

Drakken nods slowly. "I know. I was up all last night thinking about it. I _could_." He locks his eyes with hers, face bewildered, as if he has no idea why he's about to say what he is. "But Shego - I don't want to."

Okay - now she _knows _she's living somewhere between Never-Never-Land and the Twilight Zone.

She leans her head to the side and pretends to knock water out of her ear. "I'm sorry, my ears must have conked out momentarily. 'Cause I could have sworn I just heard Dr. Drakken say he doesn't want to conquer the world."

Even her calling him Dr. Drakken for the first time in recorded history doesn't catch the Doc's attention. He pulls the ponytail down onto one shoulder and starts fiddling with his split ends. "I don't. I mean - I saved it, and I just think -" He pulls his lips in and studies the ceiling for a minute, as if there's a script up there that he's following. "I just think that's what I'm supposed to be doing."

The entire planet spins backward. And she knows it'll never be going forward again.

But - strangely enough, she thinks she knows why he's changed his mind. She closes her eyes again. How old would she have been? Younger than Kimmie is now, that's for sure.

_Aviaruis snatches the whistle and runs away as fast as his legs can carry him. At least his monster condor's at the vet. Like, what kind of vet takes monster condors?_

_She sighs. And what kind of LAME crime is it to steal a bird-whistle from a museum, no matter how ancient and valuable it is? Man, even SHE can come up with better evil plans than that, and she's only twelve - _

- or so -

_- and a superhero at that._

_She closes her eyes and concentrates really hard. Anger. . . fire. . . glow. She feels a tingle in her hand and glances down. Yes! It worked!_

_She jumps in, tumbling head-over-heels - those gymnastics classes she used to take _did _come in handy, even though she told Hego they were way too girly-girl for her - and lands right behind Aviarius. She must be even quieter than she realizes, because he doesn't turn around._

_She lines up her target, takes a deep breath, pulls back her arm - _like you're playing baseball_, she tells herself - and throws. With one quick zap, Ol' Bird-Brain hits the ground, unconscious._

_And in spite of everything, a thrill whips through her. "I got him!" She grabs Aviarius and hoists him above her head. "Hego, I got him!"_

She opens her eyes and sighs for about the fiftieth time today. Yep. Back when it felt good to be good and everything was so simple.

Drakken has his own eyes closed, his own head tilted. For him, everything's probably still that simple. For a brief, crazy moment, she envies him.

"Hey, Drakken," she interrupts his thoughts.

His eyes spring open, and he looks at her, cross-eyed. Probably forgot she was even here. "Yeah?"

"I understand," she says simply.

"Did you grow?" is Drakken's response.

She groans. Leave it to him. "They're called _heels_, Oh Absent-Minded Professor." She raises a leg and points at one to demonstrate.

"Oh." Blink.

"And, no, you can't wear them."

Drakken gives one of those grunts she's almost starting to like. "I gotta get me some stilts."

Oh, that doesn't sound like a recipe for disaster at _all_.

Some random dude with the UN symbol on his shirt pokes his head in. "You're on in five minutes," he tells Drakken.

And then he's gone, leaving her employer - or whatever - running his tongue over his lips like he's trying to lick them right off. "You scared?" she asks.

She waits for the denial, but it doesn't come. He nods. "Yes, I am. Shego, can I hold your hand?"

She starts to say an automatic, _Not in THIS lifetime._ But then she glances at his own hands. They're the same hands that saved the world, but they're so tiny, and they're shaking like leaves. If someone doesn't grab them, they look like they'll tremble right off into oblivion.

"Okay," she mutters. "Yeah. But just this once."


	19. Eyes

**Eyes**

It's too white.

The floor, the ceiling, the walls - everything in the nurse's office is the color of brand-new snow. The lights are bright and buzzy, and the whole place smells like the stuff Mama uses to clean the sink. It isn't helping his headache.

His eyes burn, too, so he closes them for a minute. Okay, that feels better.

"Drew?"

He opens his eyes to see the nurse - he doesn't remember her name - standing over him. She's nice enough - he learned last week when he lost a tooth - but her dress is as white as everything else.

"Yes, ma'am?" he asks, trying his best to be polite. He winces. Just talking makes it worse. Maybe he has a brain tumor or something. He saw that on on the science channel. . .

The nurse smiles. Her teeth are white, too. He runs his tongue in the space where his left front tooth used to be, but it gets distracted and starts wiggling his right. "I'm Nurse Allison," the nurse says. "Remember me?"

He nods - and, ow, that hurts. "Yeah. I just didn't remember your name," he admits.

"That's okay." She takes his hand and leads him over to a little cot. It's not white, at least. It's blue - one of his favorite colors. "So, what brings you here?"

He lays down on the cot. It's nice and soft, but he doesn't want to be on it. He wants to be on his own couch, with his own mom and a washcloth on his forehead. "My head hurts," he whispers.

"Ah. I see." Nurse Allison puts her hand on his forehead. "You don't feel like you have a fever, but let's go ahead and take your temperature anyway."

"Okay," he agrees, inspecting his teeth with his tongue again. He hopes he isn't sick. Well, maybe a little bit sick, so he can go home and watch cartoons.

The nurse sticks the thermometer under his arm. It hits that one spot, and he laughs even though that hurts his head even more.

"Sorry. Did that tickle?" Nurse Allison asks.

"Yeah."

The thermometer beeps, and he tilts his aching head to watch it. It's amazing - someone sticks this little machine under his arm, and in a few minutes it knows how hot he is. He really, really wants to know how that works. It's almost like magic, only even better. It's science.

"Anything else hurt?" the nurse asks, holding his arm down over the thermometer. "Your tummy? Your throat?"

He pauses to think about that, swallows to test his throat. Nope. It's fine. Same with his tummy. "Just my eyes," he answers.

"Ah." Nurse Allison nods like she's figured something out. The thermometer beeps really loud, and she takes it out and squints at it. "98.6. Perfectly normal."

Oh. Guess he doesn't get to go home then.

Not that he minds school. He likes the learning part. It's the other kids that bother him.

"Were you reading, by any chance?" the nurse asks, leaning over to write something on a piece of paper. He squints at the paper, trying to read it - but it all just looks like squiggles. His head thumps like it got hit with a hammer.

"Yeah, I was," he realizes. "It was reading time - we were reading about this kid who found a wallet on the sidewalk, and he wanted to keep it, because there was like twenty-five whole dollars inside, but -"

Nurse Allison interrupts him then, which isn't very polite. "And that's when your head started hurting?"

He remembers not to nod. "Yes." He suddenly needs to look at his shoes. "I'm not a very good reader."

"I don't think that has anything to do with your headache, Drew," the nurse says. She puts her hands on his shoulders and steers him around until he's looking the other way, at a big chart on the wall. "Can you tell me which way that E is pointing?"

He gulps. "That's an E?"

Nurse Allison brings a hand up to her mouth - she doesn't wear paint-stuff on her nails like his mom does - and tries to hide a smile. But, too late, he sees it anyway. "Pretty much what I thought. How about the line below?"

His eyes hurt the instant he glances at it. "What language is that?"

"Mmm-hmm."

He's never heard of the "Mmm-hmm" language before._ Maybe it's a special secret known only to school nurses, _he thinks. Now, that would be cool.

The nurse makes more scribbles on her paper and hands it to him. "You can run on back to class, sweetheart. Just tell your teacher not to have you do any more reading - rest your eyes."

Wow. She's giving him a note for his _teacher _to have him do something different from the rest of the class. That's kind of cool, but it's also kind of scary. He must be messed up pretty bad for that to happen. "Are my eyes sick?" he asks.

Nurse Allison puts a hand on his head. "Just a little."

He bites his bottom lip to keep it from wobbling. "Am I gonna need surgery?"

She laughs - how can she laugh at a time like this? "No, of course not. I'll have - you're in Mrs. Clark's class, right?"

"Yeah. Second grade. I'm almost seven-and-a-half." He stands up as tall as he can.

"How grown-up." The nurse is obviously impressed. "I'll have Mrs. Clark tell your mother to take you to the eye doctor after school." She bends down and looks into his owful eyes. "You don't need surgery, but you probably do need glasses."

Glasses? That's _it_? "Oh," is all he can say.

"Second grade's pretty normal for getting glasses," Nurse Allison continues. "That's when you start reading more, so any vision problems become pretty obvious. Besides, your mom wears glasses, doesn't she?"

He nods - ow. "Yeah. So -" he stops to consider that for a moment. He'll have to do some more research on this subject. "- it's inherited?"

The nurse laughs again, and he doesn't understand why. What's so funny about genetics? "Yes, it is."

"Oh," he says again.

Then some kid comes in with a skinned knee, and he gets out of there as quick as he can. He doesn't like to look at blood. Well - when it's magnified and you can see that it's really just a bunch of red cells floating in a clear liquid, that's fine. But when it's just a big red thing coming out of someone, that's kind of gross. And a little scary.

His doctor's appointment is kind of blurry in his brain. He remembers the doctor was a lot bigger than him, and his voice was really deep, but he was really nice.

He remembers they put drops in his eyes that made them even blurrier. Plus, they stung and that made him cry. Just a little - he's not a crybaby. Not really.

Oh, but most of all he remembers the moment when they put the right pair of glasses on him and he could _see_! He could read the chart, and see which way the E was pointing - it really _was _an E! He spotted a bug from all the way across the room. He's not scared of bugs. Not really.

Plus, he got a lollipop and a sticker - "for being a little trooper," Mama said - and he got to wear these neat sunglasses for an hour. They made him look really cool. "Peace, dude," he told some guy in the waiting room, giving the peace sign.

He hopes that guy's okay, because for a while it sounded like he was choking.

"Hey, look, guys!"

Uh-oh. Carl's spotted him. Time to go invisible.

He puts his hands over his eyes. There. Now they'll think he's a rock or something.

His rock disguise doesn't work as well as he hoped, because Jason pulls his hands down from his face and cries, "Lookie here! Drew's a Four-Eyes!"

"Four-Eyes!" the rest of the boys chant. "Four-Eyes!"

He stares at them for a long time. That just plain doesn't make sense. "These aren't _eyes_, silly," he says, slowly, in case their puny brains can't comprehend what he's saying. "They're _glasses_. So, really, you should be saying 'Two Eyes and A Set of Corrective Lenses.'" He congratulates himself for remembering that phrase from the doctor's office.

The bullies stare at each other for a minute, lips hanging. Carl gets it together first. "Whatever. They still make you look like a geek."

His tummy tangles, and any right words leave. All that comes out is, "Gaahk!"

"Oh, no, they don't," says a voice behind them all. A _teacher_-voice.

All six of them spin around to see Mrs. Clark. She has her hands on her hips, and she doesn't look happy. "What they make him look like is the intelligent young man he is," she says.

He glows inside. That's worth Carl and those guys following him around the rest of the day, yelling, "Gaahk!" in squeaky voices.

And he can see - perfectly - the big red 100% on top of the science quiz he gets back later that day.


	20. Abandoned

WARNING: Sensitive types, get tissues. You know who you are. ;).

**Abandoned**

He hears a car engine. Eddy, he knows, would be able to tell you what brand of car it is, what year it was made, how big its tires are - all that stuff - just by listening to the engine.

He doesn't know that stuff, and he doesn't care about that stuff. He just knows a car engine means a car. And a car means that maybe, just _maybe _-

He throws himself toward the window and smashes his face up against it. It's cold against his cheeks and his nose, but he doesn't care about that, either. All he cares about are the headlights cutting through the dark, shining, coming straight toward his house -

He wobbles out a smile. It sure looks close. _Is it him? Please, please, let it be him!_

His tummy sinks as the car pulls into the driveway across the street. It's not him.

He hops off the window seat and presses his hand to his nose. It feels like a dog's, wet and cold. And he feels shivery all over. _Where is he?_

Shoving his glasses up his nose, he looks at his watch. He likes his watch. He made it himself.

But right now, even remembering how much fun it was to make it - connecting the right wires and everything - and how smart it made him feel when he was done - even that doesn't make him happy. His smile's gone, and he's pretty sure it's never coming back.

Because his watch says if his dad was coming home, he'd be home by now. Well, it doesn't say that, exactly. It says "7:45." But since his dad gets off work at 6:30, and it takes him half-an-hour to get home, he should be home by now. No matter what kind of traffic he got stuck in. (Factoring in traffic is very important.)

He closes his eyes and feels the skin under them going up to keep his tears in. He hates crying - it hurts his eyes and makes his nose run and makes him look stupid. The kids in his class say he's a crybaby. And a four-eyes. And a nerd. . .

But sometimes he just can't help it. Like now, when he remembers that awful night.

__

__

He's sitting on the living room floor, looking carefully at his science book. He knows he's not supposed to read ahead - but it's so cool. A lot of the words are too big for him to read, so he makes a kind of buzzing noise in his head and skips over them. It's the pictures that are really amazing, like showing how a caterpillar turns into a butterfly.

That's when the door to his parents' bedroom opens, and his dad walks out. He brings his book up over his face and peeks over it with just the tips of his eyes. Dad's using mad footsteps, and it always scares him when his dad's angry.

But he's not just angry. He's got a suitcase in one hand. And that can only mean one thing. He's going on a business trip - again. Even though he just got home from one last week. He made him a "Welcome Home" card in art class and everything. It stained his fingers all purple, too.

Dad stops a few feet away from him and clears his throat. "Drew," he says quietly.

"I didn't do it!" he bursts out, dropping the book. He feels like he's been squeezed up inside. "Whatever it is, I didn't do it!"

His dad bends down to look him in the eye and completely ignores what he says. Ignoring is rude, he remembers hearing. He's not supposed to ignore. But Dad does it all the time. "Your mother and I have decided we need some - some time apart," Dad says.

__

"Are you sleeping on the couch again?" he whispers. His throat can't make any louder noises, and it kind of scares him a little bit.

Dad shakes his head. "No," he answers. "I'm -" He pauses, like he doesn't remember what he was supposed to say.

But it doesn't matter, because suddenly he understands the briefcase. "You're leaving?" he yells.

No. This isn't how it's supposed to work. It's not supposed to go this way. He's heard about kids who don't have daddies - "divorced," they call it, and it sounds like some kind of disease - but it happens to really, really messed-up families in big places like California or New York. It doesn't happen to nice families like his, not in little-bitty towns like Middleton. It just doesn't.

That all goes through his head in about five seconds, and his dad straightens up and moves his tie around. He's still wearing his tie from work, he realizes. That makes him feel even worse, and he's not sure how that's humanly possible.

"Just for a few days," Dad explains. "Just until we get things worked out."

_His chest stops pressing a little, and he lets himself sigh with relief. Okay - it's okay. It's_ not _happening after all. __His daddy's just taking a break. Just a little time off. _

___Time off from _what?

__

"Well," Dad grabs his suitcase in one hand and the doorknob in the other, "keep your nose clean, kid."

_What does that_ mean? _You can't really stick a toothbrush up your nose - well, you could, but it would really hurt and be pretty gross. Any other time, that idea would have made him laugh. _

__

But, really, what does it mean? His nose isn't even dirty, as far as he can tell. He cleans it out with his fingers every now and then, even though Mom tells him that's nonsanitarial.

Now that's the least of his problems. (He read that in a book once, and it sounded really neat.) A few days has turned into two weeks, and he

knows something, almost as sure as if it's a scientific fact.

His dad's never coming back. That awful disease called "divorce" or whatever happened right here in Middleton, to a normal family, even though it's not supposed to, and that's awfully mean of it -

He curls up into a ball on the floor, trying to make himself smaller. Maybe that way there'll be less of him to hurt. And it's not the kind of hurt that can be fixed with a Band-Aid or stitches or even surgery. This is the kind that doesn't go away.

A tear trickles into his ear and makes his hearing go blurry. He clamps his jaw down, hard, like he's biting into an apple. He lost a tooth biting into an apple once. _What do I care?_ he reminds himself, swiping at the tears. _I hate him, remember? _

Cause, really, now that he thinks about it, it feels like his dad left a long time ago.

But - still - once upon a time, there was a daddy who came home from work on the same days he was home from school. A daddy who let him ride around on his shoulders and tickled the bottoms of his feet until he couldn't breathe. That's the daddy who left a long time ago. That's the daddy he already misses.

He can't stand it anymore. Like a magnet, his thumb crawls up to his face and pokes in between his lips. That feels better. That feels safe.

And, by instinct, his mouth starts to suck in on it. He knows he shouldn't - his permanent teeth are already coming in crooked, and he heard the dentist tell his mom that's part of the reason why - but he can't help it. There's just something about it, something that feels soft and safe and makes him think of soft blankets and teddy bears and his blanky and his stuffed monkey -

"Wuss," he knows the boy in his class would say if they found out. They're all into cars and guns - not real ones, of course, toy ones - and spend most of recess pretending to shoot and run over each other. That's actually kind of fun sometimes, especially when he does it with Eddy, but when he's by himself, he'd rather have stuffed animals and chemistry sets.

His dad hated it when he sucked his thumb, too. "Get that thing out," he would say, and he'd pull it out himself if he didn't. "You're eight years old; you don't need to be sucking your thumb like some kind of baby."

If - if he didn't suck his thumb and cuddle his teddy and hide under the blankets when it thunderstormed - if he was more like Eddy and the other boys - if he was more of a man - would his daddy have stayed? Does he want a braver, stronger kid?

"You're just sensitive, Drewbie," Mom always says. "There's nothing wrong with that."

It is when you're the only boy in third grade who still cries when Bambi's mom dies. Carl and those guys don't think he's "sensitive." They say he's "really a girl in disguise."

But he's _not _a girl. He knows that, because he walked into the girls' bathroom once by mistake cause he forgot his glasses and all the girls screamed, "Aaah! A boy!"

So, yeah, he's a boy.

And it's sad that Bambi's mom dies. She's so nice and pretty, like his mom. All the boys in his class - his eyes feel heavy, and he starts letting them close - they all want to hunt deer with their dads when they grow up, but he doesn't. Not that he even has a dad to deer-hunt with anymore. . .

The room goes dark behind his eyelids, and slowly his thoughts turn into dreams.

He snaps up in bed, heart thumping against his chest a little too fast. Yeah, in bed - Mom must have carried him - it was just a dream. Just a dream.

Whatever it was, because he doesn't even remember what kind of dream he had. Only that it was bad, and someone was chasing him. Or maybe they were leaving. He doesn't know.

But it scares him, and no matter where he looks, there's nothing but darkness. He knows where things should be - his bed's against the wall, and his toybox is in the opposite corner - but it looks like everything was swallowed by some kind of black monster. And now it wants to eat him, too.

He freezes. Oh, no. He's had a nightmare. He's woken up in the middle of the night. He _knows _what comes next. At least usually.

He squeezes his eyes shut, though it doesn't really matter cause it's so dark, and begs God. _Please, please, please, God. Let me be dry this time._

Chest pressing up, he rolls over. Nothing's cold between his legs. He risks feeling the sheets under him. Dry.

__

Thanks.

"Mommy!" he yells without thinking. He's given up that word by now, mostly. It sounds so babyish.

A hand brushes his arm. "I'm here, sweetie," his mom's voice whispers, and it's the best sound in the world. "I'm here."

He inches across the bed, following the sound of her voice. "Mommy," he whimpers, "my tummy hurts again."

He feels the end of the bed sag where she sits down. And the next thing he knows, her hand is moving across his tummy, back and forth, back and forth, then around in circles. It feels so much better.

He's not sure how long they stay like that when the bed un-sags. "Don't go," he hisses, jamming his fists up into his eyes so he won't cry again. "Please, Mom, don't go."

"Shh," she shushes him. She kisses his forehead, and he doesn't even mind. "I'm just going to the bathroom. I'll be back."

He freezes. _I'll be back_.

"No, you won't!" His legs start thrashing, and he kicks the blankets right off. Everything's too jammed up inside him to do anything else. "You'll never come back! Ever!"

He has to stop kicking, because she wraps him up in a hug, and he doesn't want to hurt her. "Drewbie, baby," she whispers in his ear. "I promise you I'll come back. I will always, always come back."

"Cross your heart?" he asks.

"Cross my heart."

He lets go of her. "Okay."

He hears her footsteps go away, and that itches in his chest again. But he knows she'll be back. His mom's not like his dad. She keeps her promises. She always has.


	21. Trouble Lurking

NOTE: Sort of a follow-up to "Abandoned". The next one won't be sad, I promise!

**Trouble Lurking**

_decimate - _Verb

_To severely reduce; to destroy almost completely_

His office is decimated. The city is decimated. The _world _is decimated.

The file cabinet containing all his important papers has been reduced to a twisted, melted pile of metal. The papers are ashes, his life's work gone. He grabs his hair, nearly totally gray now, in his hands and swears under his breath.

He still remembers the horrible instant when everything went wrong. What looked like one of those stupid children's toys that were all the rage now, only twenty times bigger, came stomping toward their office and blasted the roof away with the cannon in its arm.

The havoc only got worse from there. That was when it melted the file cabinet and lopped his computer in half. In less than thirty seconds, it had destroyed his files _and _his backup files. Everything was ruined.

He wishes it had been him instead. All that work, all those years spent climbing the corporate ladder, and now his company's in ruins. Well, it's not technically _his _company. He's only the topemployee. But he's poised for more.

His partner, Mazer, comes up behind him. "Is anything left?"

"Nothing." His voice comes out as dead as he feels. "Absolutely, positively nothing."

Mazer shakes his head and forces a half-smile. "Well, Lipsky, maybe this is a sign that it's time for you to retire."

That's a joke, and Mazer knows it. He may not be as young as he used to be, but he's a better performer than any of the young whippersnappers at the company. He's heard the water cooler gossip about himself - they're not saying he should retire, they're saying he should be the next CEO!

That was only a couple of days ago, and already it seems so far away. Right now that seems about as out of reach as the moon.

"As if," he retorts coolly. "It's a sign that some wacko decided to try and take over the world with - what were those things called again? Diabolicals?"

"Diablos," Mazer answers, adjusting the rabbit ears on the TV that's been brought in. Everyone's had their eye on the news ever since that fateful night, to see what would become of the infamous Dr. Drakken, perpetrator of the attack, known supervillain. Funny, he's never even heard of the nutjob before now.

_Diablo._ Spanish for "devil". He glares at his ruined computer and feels the hatred in him rise, like a volcano about to erupt. "Appropriate," he mutters. "Whoever did this must be in cahoots with the devil himself."

Mazer looks up at him and smirks. "Relative of yours?"

He turns his glare on his partner. "Very funny, Mazer."

"No, I mean it." Mazer points at the screen. "His real name's not Dr. Drakken. They just said it's Drew Lipsky. So - any relation?"

_Drew._

A playful, sing-song voice drifts into his thoughts without his consent. _Carly for a girl, Drew for a boy._

For a moment, his ruined workplace doesn't matter. His on-hold career doesn't matter. All that matters is the terrible pain in his chest.

"No relation, I'm sure," he tells Mazer, and for a minute he's sure he's right. The madman onscreen, smiling evilly, a gleam in his eyes that says he's enjoying devastating Earth, bears no resemblance to the sniveling child he left behind. His blue skin, wild hair, and scarred face make him look like a circus sideshow freak, and he doesn't want to keep looking at him.

But he keeps looking anyway. Until he notices the man has _his _hair and eyes and his ex-wife's nose and ears and chin. And then he knows.

He glances the other way and closes his eyes, as if he can block out the truth. As if when he looks back again, the supervillain who tried to conquer the world will not be his son.

And this will not be his fault.


	22. Teamwork

He brings his hand up to his face and rubs as hard as he can, like he's trying to scrub away dirt. Around and around he goes in circles, until his cheeks actually _hurt_.

Did _that _do it?

He glances hopefully down at his hand, expecting to see a huge blue stain spreading across his glove. But, nope. Nothing.

Okay, so it doesn't rub off either. He taps his chin in thought. This is starting to concern him a little. Soap, shampoo, dishwasher fluid, laundry detergent, tomato sauce. . . nothing gets this stuff off. Maybe it's - permanent.

That sends shivers through his stomach. Not that it's uncomfortable or anything - he feels the same - but he sure has been getting a lot of stares lately. One lady even ran up and asked him if he was having trouble breathing. He said of course not, why would he be, before remembering that he looks like the world's biggest Smurf now.

It's kind of putting a damper on his social life.

And that's part of the reason why he's taking slow, cautious steps toward Jack Hench's desk, hand on the twenty-dollar bill in his pocket, hoping Dementor won't jump him from the shadows and take it. Turning blue isn't so bad in the grand scheme of things - but what if something worse had happened? What if he hurt himself really bad and couldn't get to the phone to call Mother? What if he was bleeding or knocked out?

His henchmen aren't exactly trained to handle emergency situations. Actually, they aren't trained to handle much of anything. Still, he's keeping them around. They're good card players, and they make him feel like Albert Einstein. And he loves feeling smart.

He reaches the desk and clears his throat. It comes out a little higher than he means for it to, and so does his voice. "Jack Hench," he says in his calmest villain-voice.

Hench looks up from his paperwork. "Dr. . ." His voice trails off as his mouth falls open, like his jaw has come unhinged, like it needs a screwdriver. He's got a screwdriver in his bedroom, somewhere. "Drakken?" Hench finally finishes in confusion.

Oh, right. The whole Smurf thing.

Hench points, like he doesn't already know. "Your skin. . ."

He tries to rub his shoulder blades together, because they're prickling. "I know, I know!" he snaps out, forgetting his calm-voice, not that it would come right now if he wanted it to. "You see, last Tuesday I was - "

Hench holds up a hand and rubs his temples like he's got a migraine. He does that a lot around him. "Save it for a counselor, Drakken," he moans. "I don't have time for one of your two-hour monologues."

That wasn't a very nice thing to say to a fellow villain. He feels his face falling into a fierce villain-scowl - the one Dementor just calls a pout.

"Fine!" he shouts back. "I'm just here to take out an ad!"

Hench's eyebrows rise, and he runs a hand over his hair. It's black, with one gray streak straight down the middle, like he planned it that way, like all his hairs got together one day and decided to go gray perfectly in the center of his head, which he knows hair can't do. It's dead skin cells, so it's not talking with anybody, even if it possessed the parts necessary for speech . . .

Anyway, Hench runs a hand over his hair. "Do you have the money?"

He hisses under his breath and adds a grunt for good measure. Hench charges for everything. Duff Killigan told him once that if you sneezed in Hench's presence, he'd charge you for a Kleenex. He believes it.

But he nods, reaches into his pocket, and smooths the bill out flat on the table. The face of some president stares back at him - not Washington or Lincoln, that's all he knows. Hench snatches it up and licks his lips, like he thinks it's edible. Maybe _that's _why he charges so much money. Maybe money is his main sustenance, which is a really fancy, scientific word that just means "food."

"So," Hench folds the bill and puts it in his pocket to eat later, "what do you want this ad to say?"

He closes his eyes to remember, and puts a hand across his heart for dramaticness. "It should say, 'Dr. Drakken, notorious mad scientist, seeks sidekick and/or bodyguard to help him with his ultimate goal of world domination! I will pay cash and/or Bueno Nacho coupons, and you will receive a country when I conquer the world. If you're really good, maybe even a small continent.'" He lets the words hang in the air for a minute, impressive if he has to say so himself, and then opens his eyes to see Hench's astonished face.

Hench just rolls his eyes. "Okay, then."

He smirks to himself and heads home. Soon enough, he'll have a sidekick to help him out, someone who can make sure he doesn't hurt himself, someone who can maybe fight those huge officials at Global Justice who, to be honest, scare him a little bit.

He won't have to be scared of them anymore.

He snatches the first piece of paper and pencil he can find and scribbles his new discovery down madly.

__

Date: Uh. . . sometime in the spring

Dr. Drakken's Mad Scientist Log

That means "diary," not "dead tree."

__

Discovered today that mind-control mikrochips cannot effectively be inserted into candy bars. Lumps too big. Will now work to develop a mind-control chemicile that can be mixed directly into the chocolat's. . . batter or whatever the word is. Much better plan.

Found my missing goggles today. They were in the bathroom hamper. Have no idea how they got there. . .

Set VCR for documintiry on new millitary weapons. Channel 16, 8:00 PM. TONITE.

Satisfied, he puts the paper down on his desk and slams his goggles down over his eyes. Yes! Now the world is that perfect pink shade which means his goggles are on and he's ready to create a chemical that will bring the world into the palm of his hands. (Not literally, because he wouldn't be able to hold it. . .)

Just as he's reaching for the Deoxygenated Elemenohpea, there's a knock on the front door.

Uh-oh. Global Justice on another raid? His mother coming to check up on his radio talk show? One of the henchmen locked themselves out again?

Stumbling up from the desk, he fumbles his way to the door, since everything's huge and pink now. Oh, right - he reaches up and pulls his goggles up onto his forehead. Much better.

"Who's there?" he calls out.

"Pixie Scouts," a girl's voice calls back.

Saliva springs to his mouth. Chocolate chip cupcakes. Thin Mint cookies. Blueberry muffins. His stomach starts to grumble immediately, and when his stomach starts asking for food, he can't tell it no.

He flings open the door, and there's one female standing on his front stoop. She's too old to be a girl, but too young to be a woman. She has the longest hair he's ever seen - it goes nearly all the way to her posterior, and it's black like his. Her skin is pale-ish green. She's got a sack slung over her shoulder, but she's not wearing a Pixie Scout sash or even a beret.

He stares. "Where's your beret?"

The female blinks green, cat-like eyes at him. "What?"

He tilts his head to the side, feeling the newly-grown-out ponytail brush his shoulders. "And. . . aren't you a little old to be a Pixie Scout?"

The girl-woman smacks a hand into her forehead and groans. "Not that you look old, ma'am!" he adds quickly. Because she doesn't. Twenty, maybe? If that?

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," the female mutters, waving her hands in the air. "Stop. Relax. I'm _not _a Pixie Scout. That was sarcasm."

Oh. He's heard of that.

She squints at him. "Are you Dr. Drakken?"

Suspicion starts in his chest, and he's proud. That's very villainous to be suspicious. "Who wants to know?"

The girl grunts. "I do." She reaches into the sack and pulls out what he recognizes as the latest issue of _Villains _magazine, published by HenchCo. Flipping it open, she points to the ads section, where one is circled with a green Sharpie. "I'm answering his ad."

Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. He nods like he's got a spring in his neck, like one of those dashboard dogs Eddy likes to collect. "Yep, that's me," he answers. "Come on in, Miss. . ." He stops and looks at her, waiting for her to finish.

She sticks out a hand. "Shego. Just call me Shego."

They shake.

". . . This is probably going to sound a little weird," he confesses, leaning back in his chair nervously. He's never interviewed anyone who answered his questions so quickly. His henchmen aren't exactly quick thinkers.

Shego leans forward, one side of her mouth going up. "No weirder than anything else you've asked me."

"But - do you have any superpowers or anything?" He shrugs. "Just curious. See, I'm looking for a bodyguard, too. . ."

She eyes him for a minute, as if calculating his not-too-impressive height and weight. "Mmm-hmm?"

"To, um, keep me safe." He gestures toward a Global Justice dummy (as in, a test model, not one of their stupider agents). "From people like this. So - uh, any powers? I've heard of villains with powers. . ."

Shego sighs and raises one hand. "Does _this _count?"

All he can do is stare. Her hand is on fire, surrounded by green flames. He's never seen anything like that before.

Wait - her _hand _is on _fire_?

He springs out of his chair, knocking it over, everything in him scrambling around in panic. "Your hand is on fire!" he cries.

Shego looks at her hand and gasps. "Oh my gosh, it _is_! Imagine that!"

He's halfway across the lair already, falling over shoelaces he's forgotten to tie. "I'll call 9-1-1! What's their number?"

"Whoa! Whoa! Drakken!" Shego flings herself between him and the doorway. "Relax. It's okay." Her hand un-fires.

He stares. It's a miracle. It's like that one bush that talked to that guy out in the desert. . . the one that didn't burn up, even though it was on fire. "Your hand. . ." he begins.

"Yeah, I can do that. It's my power. I knew it was doing that, 'kay?" She raises an eyebrow.

Oh. "More sarcasm?" he guesses.

Shego grunts. "It's kinda my native tongue."

The reality of what he's seeing, what this woman-girl who might become his sidekick possesses, hits him hard. "It's wonderful!" he crows. "Between my superbrains and your superpowers, we'll make an unbeatable team! If, uh, that is, you decide to work for me," he remembers to add.

She turns up that side of her mouth again. "Yeah, but don't forget - I got some brains myself, D."

He pulls his shoulders up again, the blades prickly. "Of course I won't forget. And I really prefer Dr. Drakken."

Shego shrugs. "Dr. D., whatever." She shakes all that hair back over one shoulder.

Hmm. She's got a lot of mouth for a sidekick. That could be good _or _bad. Maybe both.

"I will agree with you on one thing, though, Drakken," Shego continues.

"What's tha -" He looks up just in time to see the Global Justice dummy's head come flying at him. He flings out both arms by instincts and it thumps into his hands.

Shego leans on the now-headless dummy, its neck partially melted, blowing on her hand. "I think we'll make a pretty good team."

He gapes.

__

Dr. Drakken's Mad-Scientist Log

Date: Uh. . . It's Friday. . . I think.

THE DATE IS UNIMPORTANT! I have developed a mind-control chemicle that is tasteless and oderless. Tryed it out on one of the henchmen. Made him bring me cookies for two solid hours. He's recovering quite nicely. So am I.

Will work on somehow getting this into the world's chocolat supply VERY SOON.

Recreated lab accident to turn my rubber ducky blue, too. Good ol' Quackers. . .

Ahem.

Reminder: Check your VCR to make sure it's recording in the RIGHT TIME ZONE. Otherwise, you'll wind up taping some strange new show called That's So Ravenous or something.

The phone rings right next to his ear, and he snatches it up. "Dr. Drakken's Secret Lair, Dr. Drakken speaking!" he barks.

"Avon calling," the girl-voice answers.

He feels his eyebrow lower. "Is it really or is this Shego?"

The chuckle on the other end answers his question. "Hey, you're getting better already, Doc." There's a pause. "Mind if I call you Doc?"

He forgets she can't see him through the telephone wires and shrugs. "I guess not."

"Good, 'cause I'm gonna." Shego chuckles again. "Anyway, I've been thinking about this, mulling it over. . . your cash offer sounds good, Dementor's lair stinks - I mean, literally - and, eh, not too many other options."

His hand goes tight on the phone. "So, are you saying. . .?"

"Yep. You got yourself a sidekick and a bodyguard. I'll start - Monday?"

He nods again. "Monday sounds good."

"See ya soon, Doc." He hears a dial tone, and leans back in his chair and closes his eyes, because what he just heard sounds too good to be true.

He's getting a sidekick _and _a bodyguard. And another addition to the evil family. Being an only child, the henchmen are like a bunch of big dopey brothers to him. But something's been missing this whole time, and now he finally knows what it was.

A sister.

NOTE: I did not make up "Deoxygenated Elemenohpea;" I got it from a game on the VeggieTales website. Go ahead and laugh.


	23. Standing Still

Once again, I would like to thank each and every one of you for your reviews. They always bring a smile to my face. :)

**Standing Still**

"Q-R-S-T-U-V-W-X-Y-and-_Z_!"

He sings that last letter extra loud and turns on the faucet at the same time, which is pretty cool, if he has to say so himself. Anyway, since he finished the song, that means he's scrubbed his hands long enough to get all those evil germs off. Right now, they're being washed down the drain to their doom.

He even remembers to turn off the "H" faucet - for "Hot" - first, because if he turned on the "C" one - for "Cold" - he'd burn his hands off. That's what Mama always said, at least.

He washes his hands, dries them on a paper towel, throws it away, and then leans in to check the status of his first loose tooth. ("Status" is a science-word, and it sounds really neat, even if he doesn't quite know exactly what it means.) He pushes up against the tooth with his tongue and feels it wiggle around. It feels kind of weird, because things in his mouth don't usually move around like that.

It's even weirder that, even though he can feel it move, he can't _see _it move in the mirror, no matter how hard he pushes. Plus, if he pushes too hard, it hurts, so he stops, because he doesn't like to hurt. And pain is the body's way of saying that something's wrong so you should stop doing it. He read that in his science book - well, Mama read it to him, because he can't actually read yet. . .

So - he's done washing his hands. He hops off the stool all the way to the ground without even falling and manages to open the huge, heavy bathroom door all by himself. He feels his shoulders straighten proudly. _Super Drew takes on the bathroom door monster and wins!_

The rest of his first-grade class is waiting out in the hall. He slides into the back of the line, where he can't see Miss Seuss around some bigger kid's head.

He asked her on the first day of school if she was related to Dr.

Seuss. She laughed and said not that she knew of. How could you _not _know if you were related to Dr. Seuss?

To make things even more confusing, Eddy told him he'd found out that Dr.

Seuss isn't actually a doctor. He's just a writer who _calls _himself Dr. Seuss.

He feels himself frown as he remembers that. That's kind of like lying, almost. If you call yourself a doctor, you should be a doctor. Otherwise, someone might come up to you with a broken head or something and you won't be able to fix it because you're not a real doctor and then they might DIE. Why does no one ever think of these things?

Miss Seuss whistles a little then, and that's not really fair. If he whistles in school, he has to put his head down on his desk. "Listen up, class," she calls.

He stands up as straight and tall as he can, but he can still barely see. He hates being one of the small kids, except when he gets to stand in the front of the line for school pictures.

"I'm going to go to the bathroom, too," Miss Seuss continues. "When I come back, whoever was the most still and quiet gets to pick from the treasure box."

He feels himself grin really big. He loves her treasure box - it's full of little toys and there's one cute little teddy bear, small enough to fit in your pocket, that he's had his eye on for a while now. Of course, he usually gets prizes for hundreds on quizzes, not from being still and quiet. He has some trouble with that.

But today is gonna be different. He closes his eyes and breathes in hard through his nose and out through his mouth. No one, but no one, in his class is going to be stiller and quieter than Super Drew. . .

__

. . . who, disguised as mild-mannered first-grader Drew Lipsky, quietly spies on the evildoers of the world, who are none the wiser. (That's spy-talk for "they have no clue.") None of them ever know that their plans for world taking-over are foiled by. . .

Super Drew! Able to leap tall buildings in a single bound, faster than a locomotive (whatever that is), smart enough to melt metal with his sheer awesome brainpower. . .

His nose itches. He brings his hand up to scratch it, as fast and quiet as possible. If Miss Seuss came back right now, she might think he was wiggling.

Oh, no - now his _arm _itches. He scratches it, too, but then his leg itches and he has to bend all the way over to scratch it, and he falls down doing that and lands flat on the carpet, which smells bad.

And his nose itches again.

He stands back up, slowly so that he doesn't fall again, in time to see Carl smiling meanly at him from the other line. "Hey, Drew," he hisses.

"DON'T TALK," he hisses back as loudly as he dares. Carl always thinks he can get away with breaking the rules, because he's one of the big kids who can see the teacher and already read.

Carl reaches into the pocket of his jeans and pulls out an eraser. "Hey, Drew," he repeats. "Catch!"

Carl tosses the eraser, and he lunges for it - he's not sure why, he just does. And he trips and lands - hard - on his tummy, which hurts.

Carl's friends start laughing quietly and poking each other. He stands back up and doesn't let himself look at them.

His nose still itches.

__

Super Drew bores his X-ray vision into the evil Dr. Carl, who isn't a real doctor at all.

He begins to melt, melt, melt like the Wicked Witch of the West. Soon, he's a blob of goo. . .

"Let's see." Miss Seuss's voice interrupts. "Who are the most still, quiet people I have?"

He stands up as straight and still and quiet as possible. _Me, me, me._

"Julie - " Miss Seuss points at a redheaded girl.

_Drew_, he tries to make his X-ray vision tell her. _Drew_.

"Fred - "

_Drew._

"Grace -"

_Drew!_

"And Matthew." The way Miss Seuss says "Matthew," tells him it's the last name she's gonna say.

"But what about me?" he bursts out, forgetting that that's not quiet.

Miss Seuss raises an eyebrow. "Drew, you're fidgeting all over the place."

What?

He looks down. Sure enough, his hands are shaking back and forth, and his feet won't stay still, either. He didn't even realize it. It just sort of. . . _happened_.

"But. . . but. . ." He can't find the words that'll make her understand. "But I tried really, really hard!"

Her face doesn't change. "Maybe next time."

That awful tingle starts behind his eyes, and he feels the angry-ness burn in his tummy. "No! Not next time! This time!" He stomps a foot on the ground to show her how serious he is.

Miss Seuss's eyes turn scary. "Drew. Do you want a time-out?"

He shakes his head no. What a stupid question. Of _course _he doesn't want a time-out. Why would he want to stand in the corner with his nose to the wall and nothing to do while everyone else stares at him instead of doing their work? When you're in that corner, everyone stares at you, because when you're in that corner, you might as well be wearing a sign around your neck that says, "I WAS BAD."

He never _means _to be bad.

_QUITE SOME TIME LATER_

He's bad. Bad to the _bone_.

He knows that because the Clonitron is sitting on his desk, gleaming green-and-white, begging to be used for dark, sinister - EVIL - purposes. And he knows that because the Clonitron wasn't supposed to be his. He broke into a government inventor's house and - and - _stole _it!

He cracks his knuckles - ow - and practices his best evil smile. Yep, he's not just an amateur supervillain anymore. He's actually _stolen _something.

And now, he will use it to clone himself. Fifty billion Dr. Drakkens running around will conquer the world in no time.

There's only one problem. It's missing its battery. And, of course, it takes some weird size that he doesn't happen to have lying around the lair, not under his bed, not in his junk drawer, not even in the refrigerator, where some _weird _people keep batteries.

He pulls the hovercraft keys out of his pocket and replaces them with his wallet. There's only one thing for a supervillain to do.

Go to Smarty Mart and buy a packet of batteries.

He sticks the keys in the hovercraft's ignition - Eddy taught him that word a long time ago - and turns them. Its engine makes a little humming noise, and he grins to himself. He's so proud of this thing. Built it all by himself a couple of weeks ago.

He notices a little shake in his hands as he turns the keys. Excitement, probably, since he's about to conquer the world. Because he's _not _nervous. Not at all.

The world's about to be his, and then everyone will be scared of him. Then they'll have to admit he's a genius, and he's awesome, and he's not a stupid geek whose plans never work right. James and those guys will be eating their words - and maybe some worms or something as punishment.

Yeah. He straightens his shoulders and puts his foot on the gas petal. Who needs love when people are going to be cowering in fear of him? If you can't be loved, be feared.

Still - deep down, somewhere in him, he hopes he can be both. Maybe he can mind-control people and _force _them to love him.

Supervillains don't need love, though, he remembers. He read that in some magazine called _Villains _that he recently subscribed too.

Guess he's just not a very good supervillain yet.

Yet.

He thought since he was flying _above _the ground, he wouldn't have to follow the speed limit. Apparently, even evil geniuses can be wrong sometimes.

"And do you have a license?" the policeman asks, adjusting his blue cap. It's a nice hat. If he wasn't evil, he'd like a hat like that.

His mouth goes dry. No, he doesn't. He's taken his driver's test a couple of times, and it never turns out well. People really shouldn't build sidewalks so close to the road - especially sidewalks with fire hydrants on them. Or joggers.

He gives his biggest smile, hoping his teeth sparkle. Maybe the policeman will be easier on him if he has shiny teeth. It always works on TV. Of course, usually the shiny-toothed people are girls. "I didn't think you needed a license to fly a hovercraft," he says honestly.

The policeman raises his eyebrows. "I don't honestly know." He thumps the hovercraft, and he feels a growl starting in his throat. How dare he touch his genius handiwork without his permission? "Never seen anything like this before."

Okay, time for Plan B: The Bribe. That always works on TV, too, even if you're not a girl. "If you let me off with a warning," he begins, "you can have Greenland."

The police officer stares at him like he just said something really strange. "Greenland?" he repeats.

"Yeah." He nods. "When I take over the world, I'll give you Greenland."

The officer grunts. "I don't suppose you're also the one who stole the Clonitron and forgot to take the batteries?"

Yes! Here's his first chance to try out the Supervillain Rant, which is one of the most important parts, especially for mad scientists, he's heard. "Why, yes I am!" he cries proudly. "Using it, I, Dr. Drakken, feared mad scientist, will clone myself until I have enough clones to wreak havoc in every country at the same time! Then the world's leaders will surrender to me, and I will have finally achieved my goal of world domination!"

It's a great Supervillain Rant, especially for his first one. The only problem is, he forgot he was talking to a police officer.

Next thing he knows, his hands are slammed together with bracelet-things too shiny to hurt as badly as they do, and he's riding in the back of a police car to a place he's pretty sure isn't Smarty Mart.

Rats.

He's never been arrested before. He supposes if he's going to be a mad scientist now, he'll have to get used to it.

It doesn't seem like the kind of thing that'll be easy to get used to. They give him a card with random numbers written on it and have him hold it up while they take pictures of him.

He wants to hold it up right in front of his _face_, which feels like it's on fire. He feels like he's back in first grade, standing in the corner while everyone stares at him because he's so bad.

He takes a deep breath and tries to hold the card steady, making the skin under his eyes go up so the tears won't come out. _No, no_, he tells himself. _You want to be bad now - remember?_

With the lights shining down on him like he's the only one in the world and a bunch of police officers scowling at him, it's kind of hard to remember that. His hands start to shake so badly he drops the card on the floor.

Matter of fact, he's twitching all over. Maybe he's allergic to this place.

"Dude," one of the police officers says, grabbing the card and handing it back to him. "Stand still, would you?"

He breathes in hard through his nose and out through his mouth.

__

Stand still, kids. Whoever stands the stillest and quietest gets to pick from the treasure box.

He closes his eyes - they burn, suddenly - straightens his shoulders, and holds the card up in front of him, standing as still and quiet as he can. He's pretty sure there's no treasure box in here, but maybe he'll get off early for good behavior if he stands still.

Even from behind closed eyelids, he can see the flash of a camera. The darkness is broken up by lots of little sparkles, colorful and bright.

"Good, good," the same officer says, and he dares to open his eyes. He's not being glared at quite so hard.

The officer spins his finger around. "Now turn to the side."

Oh, no, he doesn't. That's a trick to make him stop standing still so he won't get his time off. He presses his arms even tighter to his sides and refuses to move.

"Didn't you hear me?" the officer's voice growls. "I said, 'turn to the side.'"

"You told me to stand still!" he barks back. "I'm standing still!"

"Well, now you're supposed to turn to the side," another officer puts in. "That's what we're telling you to do now."

A realization pings in his brain. "You mean like Simon Says?"

One of the officers groans. "I'm not getting paid enough for this job."

"There anyone you want us to call, kid?" a policeman asks, leading him down a dark, narrow hallway. There are cages - well, he guesses they're cells - on either side of the hall, and it makes the whole place look like the pound he went to once, when Eddy's family got a dog.

The goosebumps start at his neck and go all the way down to his toes. The pound hadn't been a very nice place. There hadn't been a whole lot of room for all the dogs crowded into those cages.

"Your mother, maybe?" the policeman continues.

He thinks about that for a minute. He could call Mother, tell her he made a big mistake, and go back to living with her. Back to being picked on by every other person in the world. Back to people thinking he's a stupid science geek who can't even build a robot correctly. Back to being Drew Lipsky.

He narrows his eyes and sets his jaw. Drew Lipsky's gone. All that's left is Dr. Drakken.

So he shakes his head. "No," he says. "She wouldn't understand."

The officer shrugs. "Whatever you say."

He opens one of the cage-cells then, and pushes him inside. His feet dig into the ground by instinct, because he doesn't want to go. It's so small - and so dark - and he's pretty sure he just developed claustrophobia. "Do I have to _stay _here?" he squeaks.

"Uh, yeah." The policeman lets go of him - _no, don't let go! _his brain cries - closes the cell door, and locks it. Now everything on the other side of the door is broken by bars, and his heart is pounding in spite of himself.

"For how long?" He tries to make his voice go deeper, and he swipes a hand across his eyes. They're wet - probably his contacts malfunctioning - he's still not used to them after wearing glasses for over ten years -

"Until we can get a trial scheduled." The officer squats down to look him in the eye. "You sure there's no one we can call? You look awfully pale, kid."

"I'm naturally pale." That's true. He doesn't tan at all - just burns a lot and freckles a little. Used to freckle a lot. His body must have stopped producing that extra melanin around the time he hit puberty.

The policeman sighs. "Suit yourself, dude."

Then he walks away, leaving him clutching the bars with both hands and wanting to launch himself out of the room, out the police station, out of the _country_. If he gets the right trajectory going. . .

Ohhh, there's fear. He recognizes his body's reactions to it. Heart thumping, hands shaking, stomach churning. No matter how much he tells himself that supervillains don't _get _scared, his body doesn't know it belongs to a supervillain yet.

He sinks down onto what looks like one of the cots in the school nurse's office. It's lumpy under him, and he's pretty sure he won't be able to sleep on it tonight.

That thought makes him shudder. He's going to have to _sleep _in prison, with nothing but the moon and the bars and the fear -

And the huge guy sitting on the other cot directly across from him.

The moisture leaves his mouth and goes down to his hands. "Hi." He hears his voice go up.

The guy leans in, examining his face until he feels like a specimen under a microscope. "Man, you are just a kid."

His cheeks flush in infuration. "I am not! I'm twenty-three!" That's not really a lie; he's just skipping ahead two months.

The guy runs a hand over his head, which has a few little bristles sticking up from it, kind of like the whiskers he gets if he doesn't shave for weeks on end. (That's the _only _facial hair that ever shows up, and it's _not _fair.) "Compared to me, that's a kid, kid."

His cellmate leans in closer and raises an eyebrow. "First time being arrested?"

He nods. "How can you tell?"

The man laughs, a sound that reminds him of car tires on gravel. "'Cuz you look like you're about to puke."

"Well, I'm not." He tilts his chin up as far as he can and tucks his arms into his pits so that the big guy can't see how much they're shaking.

But he feels his face crumple. "I just want my mom," he whispers to the air.

His cellmate's eyes crinkle at the corners. "That's not what you told Bill just now."

He stares. "Who's Bill?"

The man jerks a thumb toward the door. "That officer. Trust me, I know 'em all by name by now."

He crosses his legs - uncrosses them - recrosses them - no matter what, he's not comfortable. "Well, I sorta want her - but not really - I don't know - "

He hears his voice go back up, and he buries his face in his hands. The whole thing feels like a dream, or maybe like he's watching it happen to someone else. It can't really be happening. How did everything go so wrong?

"Ah." His cellmate's voice sounds wise. "Now I understand why they put you with me."

"Why?" he howls into his hands.

"'Cuz anybody else would eat you alive."

His heart stops beating for a second, and when it starts working again, it more than makes up for lost time. "Really? They'd _eat _me?"

"Not literally." The guy sits back on his own cot and puts his hands behind his head. "Figuratively. You - ever been teased by bullies back in high school? I mean, assuming it hasn't changed since I was in it?"

He nods. "Oh, yeah." In his mind, he sees Carl's face.

__

"You have two choices here, Drewbie. You can let me copy your science homework or you can get a Swirlie." He rattles the toilet lever with one hand. "And I can't guarantee it'll be fresh water."

Not to mention James and those guys -

"Well, multiply that by ten and you've got a rough idea of how guys in prison can be. They'd have your scrawny backside on a platter," the man continues. "Most guys like you either shrivel up and die from it, or they get as nasty as the ones that pick on them."

Maybe his mom's basement isn't such a bad place to be after all. He wraps his arms around his shoulders, trying to warm himself up through the orange overalls-type thing they're making him wear, and tries not to picture his backside on a platter. "Oh," he whispers, in a voice that he hopes doesn't sound too wobbly.

"So - " his cellmate flops his hands down onto his knees - "what'd you do to get in here?"

He doesn't want to brag about it right now. "Stole a government weapon to clone myself so I could take over the world."

The man laughs like gravel again. "No, really? What'd you do?"

The hair stands up on the back of his neck. "That's what I did! I'm a supervillain bent on world domination! My name is Dr. Drakken!"

The man grunts. "Okay, Dr. Drakken. They call me Big Gary."

Big Gary is big. And his name is probably Gary. That makes sense - actual sense. Not much has since he's been arrested.

"So - how do the guards treat us?" he dares to ask. Horrible stories of people starving and freezing to death in prison before anyone even notices jump around in his brain. Of course, that was back in the 1700's, but he doesn't know how much things have changed since then. Cars have been invented, for one thing, and TV's, and some newfangled machine called the "VCR." Like that'll ever catch on.

Big Gary grunts. "They feed us bread and water once a day, and every now and then we get to go outside and work on the rockpile."

He feels what little color was in his face drain from it. "Really?"

Big Gary chuckles. "Man, you rookies are so gullible. Nah - we get three square meals a day and an hour outside. For some of us, that's better than what we got when we're free."

He's not sure whether to feel embarrassed or relieved, so he settles on a "Nnngh." It's a multipurpose noise.

__

Note to self: Look up "gullible" in dictionary. It doesn't sound like a compliment.

He raises his head enough to look out the window. The sky is pitch black, so he can't see any stars. He knows they're still there, behind clouds or something, because they're always there, but it sure looks like God is hiding them from him. _I guess you must really hate me now, huh?_

"Good night." Big Gary closes his eyes. "Be careful once you get out, 'Doctor.' You don't seem like the supervillain type."

The smile slips off his face in indignment. "But I _am _a supervillain!" His voice goes too high again.

"Sure you are. Good night."

Only when he hears "good night" for the second time does he realize his own eyes are nearly closed, like they're magnetized. His body feels limp and weak and tired, and he decides to risk lying down on the cot. It's not so bad - a little lumpy, but at least it's not hard, like the bed in his old dorm room. He had to sleep on the bad bed since he was the youngest. . .

The old anger heats him up again and he tenses, stiffens, like any minute something's going to leap out of the shadows and gobble him up and spit out his bones. He really shouldn't have watched that horror movie marathon last week to try and toughen himself up. Really, _really _shouldn't have.

__

"I vant to suck your blood!" Dracula cries.

Before he even knows what he's doing, his thumb has slipped into his mouth and he's sucking in on it. He doesn't need _Villains _magazine to tell him that supervillains don't suck their thumbs, but he can't help it. Something about the motion is comforting.

He's sure there's a scientific explanation for it, but he's too tired to think of it right now. He just lies there, still and quiet.

__

Still and quiet. Still and quiet.

He can picture the treasure box already.

NOTE: The name "Clonitron" lifted from an episode of Cyberchase, without permission but with the utmost respect.


	24. Creation

**Creation**

One day, when he was in fifth grade, he fell off the top of the jungle gym. He's not sure exactly how it happened - maybe somebody pushed him, actually - that would be about his luck - but he fell all the way to the ground and wound up breaking his wrist.

He kept waiting to cry, because he cried whenever he got hurt. Stubbed toe, he cried. Skinned knee, he cried. Finger caught in desk, he _wailed_. But he didn't cry over the broken bone. It hurt too bad to cry.

That's how he feels right now.

Only it's not his wrist this time. It's his chest, which feels like it's going to split right in half, and his throat, which is burning like it did that one time he got tricked into eating a chili pepper.

He stares back down at his mother's extra-curly cursive writing. _Dear Drewbie, _it says. _This came for you in the mail today. It's the invitation to your college reunion._

He can _see _that. The burning in his throat gets worse. Come to think of it, it was James and those guys who tricked him into eating a chili pepper, wasn't it? They thought it was funny, but he was sure he was dying.

Maybe it would have been better if he _did _die. Then they could get charged with murderand go to jail for the rest of their lives, and then at least justice would finally be done.

But now he knows there's no justice in the world. They're probably all settled down now in big houses with pretty wives and cute kids and jobs that pay a lot of money -

He glares up at the lair's dripping ceiling. And he's languishing alone as a supervillain who needs to conquer the world so that no one can pick on him anymore. So that everyone will finally see that he's a genius and that he was right and they were wrong and then _he'll _laugh at _them_.

Maybe he can even make them his _slaves_.

He sighs and rubs his head, which is throbbing right on cue, right between his eyes. It always starts doing that when he gets angry enough. Much as he wants to take over the world, he doesn't want to _have _to do it. He doesn't want to be here.

Kim Possible's face pops into his mind, and he scowls at it. How dare she invade his mind? It's his, and she's not allowed inside it.

But, yeah, if she's such a hero, and heroes are supposed to protect the innocent, why did no one ever stop any of this? Where was Kim Possible when all this happened?

Well, actually - he stops and counts backward in his mind - fifteen years, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty - has it been twenty years already? Wow. She wouldn't have even been born yet.

How dare she not be born? How dare she not come and rescue him so he wouldn't have to turn into a supervillain and have to take over the world?

He's sure some part of his brain blows a fuse, because he knows, deep down, that he's not making sense. But he doesn't care. Part of being a mad scientist is not making sense. How can he want so badly to be evil and yet _not _want to be?

It's all James's fault. And Bob Chen's. And Ramesh. . . did Ramesh even _have _a first name? Stupid Ramesh without a first name. . .

__

"This is the way of the future, men."

He squeezes his eyes shut. _No, go away,_ he tells the memory. _Go away - I don't want to go back._

It doesn't listen.

__

"Gentle as a summer shower, no?"

"Uh, no."

"You can stop laughing, okay? That was days ago!"

"Admit it, man. You messed up bad."

"Oh, look at me! I'm going to dance with a robot! Yeah, if she doesn't kill me first!"

"You guys think you're all that. . . but you're not!"

He pushes himself away from the kitchen table, feeling sick. It hurts just as bad today as it did then, and it makes him even angrier now. Twenty years later, and nothing's been done about it. They probably don't even remember him.

Well, maybe they do. Yeah, maybe they sit around at their scientist conventions saying, "Remember that one little dweeb back in college who hung around with us? Drew Something-or-Other?" Then they all laugh. . . again.

His throat burns even hotter, and an idea jumps into his brain. A brilliant, truly _genius _idea.

He's come a long way in twenty years. He's built all kinds of Doomsday devices - a brain-switching device (he was really proud of that one), a Feline Hypnotism Ray, a melting machine, laser drills, nano-explosives. . .

How hard could a couple of robots be?

Yes! He's amazed himself with his own geniusness! He'll build robots - _beautiful _robots who can dance and sing and carry on a conversation -

Then they'll see that he really is smart - smarter than all of them put together, and he has a bunch of pretty robotic dates to boot. Then _he _can laugh at _them _and make _them _cry.

And then justice will finally be done.

He works off pictures he printed off the Internet - strange thing, this Internet. It can probably be used for unspeakable evil. Maybe he could invent something that would knock all other computers off the 'net (as the teens call it), thereby allowing himself access to top-secret government sites. He could call it a - a - a "cold." Or maybe a "flu." Or a -

A virus! Now that's catchy.

But now, he needs to focus on building his robots. And the pictures he's printed off are ones of supermodels, the ones who are beautiful, the ones anyone would like to date.

He draws the blueprints first - the bodies need to be shaped just right, exactly like the supermodels. The first robots he made were kind of fat - well, not "fat," exactly, because robots can't have body fat - but they were big and bulky. These are slender and. . . well. . . different.

They need to be tall, too. Every single one of those supermodels was at least five-foot-ten, which means -

He squirms a little, feeling like there are bugs in his lab coat. That means they're going to be taller than him.

He'll need some kind of metal, something strong but bendable to let their arms and legs move. He'll need something to act as joints, knees and elbows and stuff. He'll need something for their hair - wire, maybe? A much lighter, flippier kind of metal?

__

Worry about the materials later, Drakken.

He takes a big bite of his donut and goes back to drawing the blueprints. The hair's got to be blond, because most of these models are blond. It can't be all wild and curly and little-girly like the ones on his last robots, either. It's got to be straight and silky, able to be flipped over the shoulders. The supermodels flip their hair like they're trying to toss it off or something.

The eyes - the eyes will probably need to be blue. But more important, they need to be wired right, constructed right.

He glances back at his human-body book as he gulps down his entire glass of milk in one big chug. Only _real _men can do that. The eye is a very complex organ, to let you see. He probably won't be able to copy that, exactly. Maybe he'll have to settle for light-sensors.

No, somewhere in between. A simple eye.

He rubs his nose - because it itches - and squirms around on the seat - because his back itches - and then wiggles around a lot more because now his backside hurts from sitting still for so long. So he gets up - falls down - he forgot his feet were asleep - it would be a lot easier to remember if they snored every now and then -

_Whoa, whoa, whoa._ His brain is so tangled, he can't remember what in the world he was thinking about. He flops down, right in the middle of the kitchen floor and closes his eyes and mumbles, "Ohmmm. . ." like those guys on the TV guide channel at two in the morning.

It doesn't help, so he stops mumbling. His chest is throbbing again. _Some genius - can't even remember what he was thinking about thirty seconds ago._

_Eyes! I was thinking about eyes! And you _have _to be a genius to even _know _how to design a robot eye that works, much less _make_ one_, he shoots back.

He gets up and trips over the broom - who put the broom in the middle of the kitchen floor? - and falls face-first back into his chair. Groaning, he pushes himself up and plops down again at the table.

They need to be able to see, hear, process information - it's almost like making another person. He could maybe - _maybe _- even program them with human emotions, so that they won't want to make mistakes.

Yeah. Mistakes would embarrass them. If he makes them embarrassed, they won't mess up.

His fingers start tingling, and he takes off his glove to check to see if they're glowing green, like Shego's do. Nope.

But it sure _feels _like it. There's power going straight through them, and it - it tastes better than the donut.

The robots have to be perfect.

This isn't really a take-over-the-world thing, so Shego's getting two weeks of vacation time - _paid _vacation time, because he's such a nice boss. It takes a long time, even though every minute he's awake, he's working on the robots.

He got the yellow wire-metal for their hair a long time ago. That was the easiest part, because it doesn't really have to _do _anything except hang there and flip and look pretty.

He looks at the vast array (he read those words in a book once and they sounded so cool) of metal in front of him. All different colors, all different shapes and sizes and weights -

His head spins. How is he supposed to know what will work best?

He stops. Pants. Closes his eyes so that the choices can't overwhelm him. It's dark behind his eyelids, with nothing to distract him. In the darkness, he can remember the science behind it -

__

Strong enough to make them sturdy, light enough so they can move. Polished. Shiny. Able to bend easily. Choose your color.

He opens his eyes and swallows hard, because his throat is lumping up. The first robots - the Bebes - they were all blue, a really neat color.

Another hard swallow. These new ones need to be blue, too. It's more important than ever.

The eyes are red, then, because blue eyes won't show up against blue skin. Hard, shiny bulbs, the color of blood.

Ewww. Where did that thought come from? He doesn't like blood much - well, when it's coming out. His hands go up to his cheek and trace scar tissue, almost without his permission.

Still, that was a nice, villainous thought. World conquerors probably think about blood all the time. He's not sure - he's never _known _any world conquerors -

And he's got the wiring just about right. He's sculpted the bodies now, just like the supermodels'. It was kind of. . . funky. . . do kids today still say that? . . . so he put clothes on them as soon as possible. He's not sure why; it just makes him feel better.

Not _too _many clothes, though. Supermodels don't wear a lot.

Don't they get cold?

The programming is finished, and he's ready to turn them on. If everything goes right -

The first robot's red eyes flicker open and focus on him. "I am Bebe," she says. Her voice sounds like Shego's, smooth and calm.

Yes! She can see! She can talk! She knows her name! He's grinning so big, he can nearly see his own teeth. He's never known anyone who did anything like this before. Maybe he's actually the smartest person in the whole darn world -

_That's right. Smartest person in the whole darn world. _That feels good. He wants to keep it.

"Yes, you are," he says. His voice suddenly sounds really - high to his own ears, like he's been breathing helium. Coughing, he makes it go deeper, which hurts his throat, but he doesn't care. "And do you know who _I _am?"

Bebe bends in the middle - she can move! - and bows to him. Bows to him! Nobody's ever done that before!

And, oh, man, does it feel good. The itching in his chest stops.

"Yes," she answers. "You are Dr. Drakken - "

" - Our maker - " the second Bebe chimes in.

" - And master," adds the third.

_Ohh_, that feels _good_. Like drinking a whole mug of hot chocolate on a cold day. His stomach is warm and fluttery with excitement. He can't wait to tell Shego.

"Very good, girls," he praises them. Positive reinforcement is very important - well, it worked with Commodore Puddles, at least. "And, do you hear my voice?"

"Yes, Dr. Drakken," they all say at once.

"Good," he says in his most professional voice. "This is the only voice you listen to, the only voice you answer to. Anything I command you, you do it."

They all bow. "Yes, Dr. Drakken," they repeat.

Now, why doesn't Shego talk to him like that? He'll have to speak to her about it. Maybe promise her a cookie if she does. That's the power of positive reinforcement.

It's time to test something else he's given them. He shoos Bebes 2 and 3 out of the room, tells them to get him a peanut butter sandwich - crusts cut _off_! - and they do, leaving him alone with Bebe 1.

"Bebe," he whispers. "What's the name of my arch-nemesis?"

Bebe 1 shrugs. "Bebe does not know."

He nods as slowly and seriously as possible, the way the mad scientists on the sci-fi channel do. Inside, though, his head wants to just bounce up and down in anticipation. "The name of my arch-nemesis," he says, remembering to deepen his voice again, "is Kim Possible."

Bebe 1 nods. "Kim Possible is Dr. Drakken's arch-nemesis."

When the other two come back with his sandwich - and his milk; he didn't even ask them to bring him milk! - he whirls on Bebe 3. "Bebe," he asks again, "what's the name of my arch-nemesis?"

Bebe 3 stands straight and stiff, arms at her sides. "Kim Possible is Dr. Drakken's arch-nemesis," she replies.

YESSSSSSSSSS!

The hive-mind communication works! Any information given to one of the Bebes is automatically passed along to the other two, like a big hive of bees. That way, if they need to split up. . . well, it won't really make a whole lot of difference.

He jumps up, throws his fists in the air, and yells the first words of triumph that come to his mind. "Boo-yah!"

Ewww. He just quoted. . . that guy. . . who follows Kim Possible around. Oh, well. They're cool words, anyway.

He finishes his sandwich, does that amazing downing-milk-in-one-chug thing. Then he turns to Bebe 1, bows low, holds out his hand, and dares to ask the question that sent everything downhill that one night.

"Bebe. . . may I have this dance?"

Her red eyes flicker with recognition. Good - she at least knows what "dancing" means. "Affirmative. Bebe will dance."

He flinches, waits for her to grab him and try to tie him into a pretzel or something - that hurt bad enough twenty years ago, and his back really can't afford it anymore. But she doesn't. She takes his hand gently.

His throat gets lumpy again, so he holds out his other one. His other hand, that is. He only has one throat.

Bebe 1 takes that, too, and the next thing he knows, they're moving across the floor, and his heart is thudding around in his chest so hard it hurts. He's never danced with a girl like this before, even a robotic one whose hands are cold in his sweaty ones.

In the movies, right about now, he realizes, the woman would sigh and rest her head against the man's chest while they swoop gracefully across the floor. But that's not going to work here. First of all, she can't rest her head against his chest, because she's two inches taller than him. And second of all, they're not moving too gracefully - which is his fault, not Bebe 1's. He steps on her feet fourteen times, but she doesn't even flinch.

Finally, he pulls away, because he just feels too weird inside to keep going. Excited and nervous and proud and almost queasy, all at the same time. Wait 'till James and those guys see his new robots now.

Wait 'till they see _him _now.

He suddenly realizes a very important fact as he untangles his hands from Bebe 1's. He needs to go to the bathroom.

That's the only problem with drinking your milk in one gulp.

That night, he sees something moving across his bedroom. Eight legs. Kind of hairy. Too big to be a bug.

Spider!

He scrambles back onto his bed so it can't crawl onto his toes and nibble on them. Forgetting Shego isn't there, he yells, "Spider! Kill it, kill it!"

The next thing he knows, the Bebes have trampled the spider so hard they've left a hole in his floor. But he doesn't care. He just sits there and gapes.

They can fight. They can smash. And they want to protect him from harm.

He feels a smile crawling across his face, and he narrows his eyes and makes the grin turn evil. He suddenly has an idea - an amazing idea, even better than usual.

These girls aren't going to be his dates to the reunion. They're going to - to -

To kidnap James and Bob Chen and stupid ol' Ramesh-of-the-no-first name, to catch them in his genius web of evil wickedness! They've already got the basic programming. . . if he tweaks it just a little, they can be fierce warriors, maybe as fierce as Shego.

The Bebes, that is. Not his ex-friends.

He sits there for a minute, pondering what he'll do with James and the jerks, which sounds like a weird name of a band, when he has them in his grasp. Use a Doomsday device on them and fry them up just enough to leave them bald for the rest of their lives? Make them scrub down his entire lair with nothing but toothbrushes to work with? Torture them?

K - k - ki - ki -

He can't quite think the whole word. No, he'll kidnap them and tell them what's happened to him, what their cruelty has turned him into. Then, well, it depends on what they do. If they're sorry and start crying and apologizing, he'll just make them scrub the lair. If they aren't, he can torture them or fry them, maybe turn _them _blue, too.

And if they're nasty to him still, _then _he can ki -

His stomach does a flip, and he lays back down in bed. His eyelids feel heavy, and his brain is going back, back, back, more than twenty years back, without his consent.

_"Wow. . . you guys are scientists, too? Can I hang out with you? Pleeeeeeeease?"_

_"Well, Drew. We took a vote - you can room with us."_

_"REALLY?"_

_"It is okay, Drew," _he suddenly remembers hearing Ramesh say that one night. _"Everybody misses their mother when they first head off to college to further educate their minds."_

_"I wanna go home!"_

_"Hey, dude, we're here. This is your home now," _Bob said. _"It's gonna be all right, man. Don't cry or anything."_

Why did he have to think of _that_? A moan slips out from between his lips, and he didn't give it permission to.

"Dr. Drakken?" He looks up to see Bebe 2 hovering over him. "Is there anything you would like Bebe to do?"

"Tuck me in," he whispers. "I'm cold."

She does. And he doesn't tell her to kind of bend down and brush his cheek with one hand, but she does that, too.

He doesn't care how cold her hand is. It feels safe.


	25. Stripes

Just because I like writing banter. And 'cuz Shego is awesome.

**Stripes **

Some days Drakken is a supervillain bent on world conquest, and she's his partner in crime - the common sense and superpowers to his scientific mumbo-jumbo and machines that would do Rube Goldberg proud. And some days he's a little boy, forty-one years old, and it's her job to look after him for a few hours.

When he answers the door with pastel-pink stripes across his pajamas and a flowered shower cap perched on his head, she knows which one today is going to be.

She puts both hands up to her temples - her head already hurts - and fights the sudden, overwhelming urge to walk right out the door and come back later. Maybe tomorrow, maybe next week. Maybe never.

The Doc's giving her puppy-eyes. She hates that like nothing else.

"She-_go_." Check that. Nothing else except that whine, which is already going. "It's about time you got here!"

She examines him again to make sure she's not hallucinating - maybe she got some bad chicken last night or something - and grunts. "Rough morning, I take it?"

Drakken peers at the clock, eyes bleary. "It's morning?"

Hoo-boy. The bags under his eyes are even bigger than usual. He's been all up night again, hasn't he?

There's a milk mustache crusted on his upper lip, so at least she knows he's eaten breakfast, though she has no idea when - it could have been at midnight for all she knows. World conqueror, her foot. He probably belongs in a nursing home.

She settles herself down into her usual place at the table and pulls out her nail file. "So," she begins in what she hopes is a sufficiently bored tone, "that's a bold new fashion statement there, Dr. D."

Drakken makes a couple of noises that sound vaguely like a deranged water buffalo in labor. Good. She's getting his goat, just like he's getting hers. "It's a long story," he finally spits out.

She spreads out her hands and examines the blades in her gloves. "It's not exactly like my social schedule is packed. Shoot."

Drakken stares down at his jammy top like he's never seen it before in his life. "Well, you know how you're always telling me I can't take care of myself?"

She nods. "Mmm-hmm." Well, what else can she say? The truth is the truth.

"So -" Drakken pokes a finger into the air in a way that's probably supposed to look impressive. It doesn't. "I decided to prove you _wrong_!"

She raises an eyebrow in the direction of his striped pajamas and the shower cap that probably once belonged to his mother. A smirk starts at the corners of her mouth, and she goes ahead and lets it. Let him realize how stupid he looks; maybe it'll keep him from doing something like this again. "And this is proving me wrong how, exactly?"

The Doc stomps a foot as hard as he can. "Let me finish, Shego!" His voice squeaks, the way Kimmie's dopey sidekick's does sometimes.

And that's too good to resist. "Let me finish, Shego!" she squeals in her best Minnie Mouse voice.

Cue the grunts. "NEHHH, SHEGO!" Drakken finally hollers.

Ahhhh. World domination is nice and everything, but this is the kind of power she likes - on a much more _personal _level. Power over Dr. D. and his mood swings, which are worse than any girl's.

"So, so, keep going." She waves a hand in his general direction. "The planet's only gonna be around about five billion more years, you know."

Drakken just blinks. "Okay. . ." Right over his head, she knows. "So - I was going to do my own laundry!"

He says that like he's just taken out Global Justice in his spare time. "But - you don't know how to do laundry, do you?" she asks, knowing full well what the answer is.

Drakken hitches his shoulders up to his ears and grins sheepishly at her. "Well. . . um. . . it didn't turn out to be one of my strong suits, shall we say?"

She shrugs. "I guess we shall." The smirk gets bigger. She knows there's more, and it's gonna be _good_.

"And - uh - well - um -" Drakken coughs and rubs the back of his neck - "I didn't exactly realize you're supposed to put different colors in different. . . loads. Or whatever the word is."

Hence, the lovely pink stripes on his blue jammies. "Ah," she says, nodding like she's a head shrink. "And what did you have in your laundry that's _pink_, pray tell?"

Slowly, slowly, the Doc's cheeks go the same shade as the stripes. Well. Guess that answers _her _question.

"Okaaaaaay," she manages to cough. "Very macho."

The blush spreads across his nose, too. "They're not all the way pink!" Drakken yelps. "Just the polka dots!"

Ewwww. She shudders. Not a mental image she needed.

"Thank you, Drakken," she snarls. "T - M - I!"

"Oh." His head hangs, and she notices for the first time that only a few choppy strands of hair are sticking out from under that equally macho pink shower cap. "Sorry."

She waves that off and leans in to examine his neck. "Is there a story behind your hair, too?"

Dr. D's sheepish grin returns. "Have you ever noticed how expensive haircuts are?"

__

Oh, no.

She puts her hands up over her face, like that'll make the little brat go away. "Please don't tell me you cut your own hair," she mutters.

She can't see Drakken's face between her fingers, but she can _hear _the pout in his voice. "Don't be ridiculous, Shego. I invented a machine to do it for me!"

And he tells _her _not to be ridiculous? "Annnnnd how did that work for you, Doc?" she asks in her most teacher-like voice.

She peeks out from between her fingers to see Drakken's grin nearly touch his earlobes. His eyes are scrunched like he's going to cry, though. "Um. . . the Hairdressertron still has a few. . . bugs that need. . . working out."

__

Deep breath. Imagine you're relaxing on a desert island with no Drakken in sight.

She hurtles out of the chair and, as Drakken stares in astonishment at her empty seat, reaches up and flicks the shower cap off his head, landing perfectly on her feet before he even knows what's going on. And then she stares.

Crud. His hair looks like something rabid got into it.

The spikes that stick up from his forehead have been reduced to wiry little strands about as thick as dental floss. _Used _dental floss that's all crumpled and wavy, to boot. The sides are nearly completely shaved, making him look like something out of _Star Trek_. Some of the stuff in back is still scraggling to his shoulders, while other parts stop halfway down his neck. Not neatly divided up, either. It just goes shoulder-length - neck-length - shoulder-length - neck-length.

By now, Drakken's squalling like the great big baby he is and fumbling around to cover his head with those too-tiny hands. "Shego!" he shrieks so loudly she's sure every dog in North America is about to start howling. "Give that back!"

She holds the shower cap just out of his reach and shakes her head while he jumps for it. "Ask yourself something, Einstein: Is this really worth saving a couple of bucks?"

"I didn't know it would do _that_!" Drakken wails, finally managing to snatch the cap out of her hands. The fire goes out of his droopy eyes, and his shoulders slump. "Remind me never to invent something when I haven't slept all night, okay?"

She smirks. "Doc - never invent something when you haven't slept all night, okay?"

"Thank you, Shego," he hisses through his teeth. "You're ever so helpful."

"Sarcasm does not become you, Doc," she retorts.

Drakken groans and sinks down into a chair. More like _melts _down. His legs look pretty shaky and, doggone it, she's almost starting to feel bad for him. "So I was going to invent some hair-growth tonic to grow it back, but I was out of mayonnaise - "

Why would he need _mayonnaise_?

" - so I was going to go to Smarty Mart and get some when you showed up." Drakken's eyes go blank, and he starts padding at his pajama pants, looking for a pocket. "And I couldn't find the hovercraft keys, either."

Good thing she got here when she did. _Hair-growth tonic. _Good grief, with the track record the Doc has today, he'd probably wind up looking more like the missing link than Monkey Fist himself.

She quirks an eyebrow. "You were going to Smarty Mart in your pajamas?"

The brown eyes blink. "Ohhhhhhhhhh." Drakken nods slowly, like a first-grader learning how to carry. "I knew I forgot something. . ."

She'd like to think that, given the circumstances, she's been extremely patient up till now. Well, at least a little bit patient. But now -

"Okay." She sends acid into her voice. "Even I have my limits. You are not going out in public looking like - _that_." She jabs a finger in the general direction of the rat's nest barely covering his head.

Drakken juts his huge chin at her. "You can't stop me, Shego," he snaps back with amazing maturity.

She returns to her filing. "Nope, I guess not," she muses. "But I _can _refuse to go with you. And you know how well you usually do without me around, don't you?"

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Drakken's face fall, and a sizzle starts in her chest. Ding-ding-ding. Score one for the sane member of the team.

"Relax, Dr. D." She heads for the medicine closet to retrieve the scissors. "I'm not gonna scalp you - just even it out."

His lower lip wobbles. "Don't touch my hair," he whimpers.

Great. She's almost forgotten how possessive Drakken gets about his hair. Touch it, and he flips out.

"Look," she snaps. "If you just stay still, it won't hurt."

Like she doesn't know that. "It'll only take a few minutes," she groans, half to reassure herself.

Once she gets back with the scissors, she has to get Drakken to kneel on a kitchen chair and put his head down on the table. He wails about that, too - says it hurts his back like crazy, and she does hear a popping noise when he finally manages it.

She gets the scissors ready in one hand and grabs a hunk of the Doc's hair with the other. It slides greasily right out of her hands.

_Yuck_. "Did you even wash your hair before you had your Haircuttermajog cut it?" she demands, wiping her gloves frantically on her jumpsuit.

Drakken mumbles something incoherent into the tabletop.

"Well, go wash it now," she snaps, propping her hands on her hips. Honestly - she thought _every_one knew you were at least supposed to get your hair wet before you cut it. Even her _brothers _know that.

He gets up, pops again, and limps off toward the bathroom, the pale-pink-against-dark-blue stripes of his pajamas burning her eyes.

Okay - take two.

She takes a handful of Drakken's newly-washed hair, surprised at how silky it feels now. That's just not fair to give a guy, especially one as obnoxious and awkward-looking as Dr. D.

Of course - she snips at the strands she's holding while she thinks - she should be used to that by now. All the other girls in her class at school always said Hego was "a hunk." Sure. Because _they've _never seen him running around the house with a bath towel around his neck, yelling about "Go-ooperation."

The hairs on the back of her neck stand straight up, and she concentrates on not letting the scissors slip. Probably best not to think about Team No-Go while she's cutting Drakken's hair.

Ten minutes later, she's done, which is good, because the Doc's starting to squirm around in his seat. She even manages to wrestle his hair back into its ponytail, shorter and choppier than usual, but at least he looks semi-presentable.

Drakken moans as he slides off the chair and feels the back of his head. "Does it look okay?" he asks.

"No," she answers honestly. "But it doesn't look like the space gerbils have been chewing on it, either."

To her surprise, Drakken's face lights up, smile so big she can about see his tonsils. "I have an idea, Shego!"

Well, that's _never _a good sign.

"Oh, joy," she mutters, sweeping stray strands of hair off the chair. "I can hardly wait to hear it."

"We use the Hairdressertron to give Kim Possible a horrible haircut!" Drakken gleefully points to his own head. "Even worse than _this _one!"

"And that'll be hard," she puts in.

Drakken doesn't notice or care about that comment. "And then she'll be so embarrassed she'll never want to leave her bedroom! She won't be able to come stop me when I conquer the world!"

Oooooookaaaaay. There are only about twenty-five thousand ways that plan could go wrong.

Still, if it gets Miss Goody-Two-Shoes off their case, she's all for it. That - she stops and thinks for a minute - probably explains why she's still working with Little Mr. Helpless.

"Go get dressed," she grunts. "Then come talk to me about it."

Drakken stares down at himself again. "Whoa - my jammies have pink stripes now."

Oh, nuh-_uh_.

He leaves the room, muttering, "Ohhhh. . . right. . . laundry day."

She makes sure he's out of earshot before she puts her head down on the table and laughs. And laughs. And laughs.


	26. Breaking the Rules

WARNING: Borderline T for teens being. . . well, teens. Fairly tame, though, because I'm such a prude. ;)

**Breaking the Rules**

He shouldn't be doing this.

_Really _shouldn't be doing this.

If Mother finds out - he'll be grounded until he's in dentures. Or at least till _she's _in dentures.

He looks out the window and concentrates on the little grooves on the sides of the road, the ones that rumble when you run over them, to tell you you're about to fly off the road and crash into a tree. That's one of the things he learned from Driver's Ed last month.

__

So why am I going?

He knows the answer to that, a squirmy feeling he can't quite put into words. He needs to go with Eddy - to watch over him, to sort of protect him. After all, he's his older cousin, even if he _is _a lot smaller.

Because what if Eddy flew off the road and crashed into a tree? Or hit his head on the door to the men's restroom and knocked himself out, or got abducted by aliens? The possibilities are _endless_.

Asking Mother for permission was the worst part. It should have been easy, just a simple, "Can I go to the mall with Eddy tonight?"

But she looked up and raised an eyebrow and his mouth went all dry. "What for?" she asked.

For the scariest moment he had ever lived through, the lie Eddy told him to tell scrambled out of his mind. "Because. . . because. . . because. . . because he needs new sneakers, Mother."

"Oh. Okay." Mother blinked at him. "But why not go to that little shoe store nearby, instead of all the way up to the mall?"

Ohhh. He couldn't look her in the eye. His throat felt like he'd just swallowed a test tube.

Mother saw him look at his shoes, though, and came up with her own explanation. "Oh, I get it. Is it because of that pretty girl who works at the food court, Drewbie?"

His cheeks caught on fire, he was pretty sure. He'd almost forgotten about her. With the nice smile and the way she just chuckled and handed him extra napkins when he spilled some of his ice cream on his shirt. . .

He managed to nod, and Mother gave him permission, just like that. She was smiling at him like he was five years old and in love with his teacher. That still bugs him now that he thinks about it.

That's not the only thing. He squirms around on the passenger seat of his uncle's car, feeling itchy inside. And outside. He pulls up his sleeve and rubs at the rash on his arm. Apparently, you can_not_ substitute pyanzium for hydrolized neopostrent when making your own own lotion. At least it was just his arm and not his face, because this thing's red and swollen and ugly.

"Hey, Cousin Drew!" Eddy's voice makes him jerk his head around and look at his cousin, who has both hands on the steering wheel and is leaning forward like he's riding a horse. "I figured out what I'm gonna get!"

The itching gets worse, and he scratches like crazy. "What, Eddy?"

Eddy looks at him in disgust. "It's 'Ed,' cuz. Like 'Driver's Ed.' Wasn't it totally sweet of them to name that class after me? Seriously?"

He doesn't dare tell Eddy - Ed - whatever his name is now - that Driver's Ed is actually short for "Driver's _Education_." He probably wouldn't listen to him, anyway. "Okay - so what are you getting?"

Eddy tilts his head and runs his hand back through his blond hair, which hangs down past his shoulders now, longer than some of the _girls _at school wear theirs. His parents don't like that, he says. "I'm gonna get an 'ED'! Right here!" He takes a finger off the steering wheel to point at his left bicep. Well, technically, the skin over his left bicep. "So that everyone will know it's not 'Eddy' anymore."

"Oh. Cool." Somewhere in the back of his mind, hiding behind the worry, is a little part that admires Eddy. He wishes he were brave enough to get something tattooed on his arm - maybe something that says, "MY NAME IS NOT DREWBIE AND I AM NOT A GEEK."

He stares at his arm again, rash and all. It's too scrawny to fit all those words on it - or even half those words.

"Are you _sure _you want to do this?" he finally asks. Maybe Eddy's scared, too, and they won't have to go through with this, and they can just go buy him sneakers and spy on the girl at the food court, and he won't have actually lied to Mother.

Eddy grins as he spins the steering wheel around. "Sure I'm sure! Never been surer about anythin' in my life! Seriously!"

He wonders how many times Eddy has said the word "seriously" in his life. Must be in the trillions by now.

His cousin keeps going. "Maybe we can even get you one, too."

He swallows hard - his throat itches now, too. Yeah, part of him would like to see the looks on Carl and them's faces when he waltzed in with the chemical formula for lead or something tattooed on his arm. They wouldn't be able to help themselves - they'd _have _to admire his manliness.

But they do it with a _needle_, injecting _permanent _dye into your skin. INJECTING. He doesn't like needles. Plus, he hears they don't always clean the needles really well, so you could get a lot worse than a little chemical rash. Like an infection or a deadly disease, and then your whole arm could fall off, and there would go your tattoo, too.

And if Mother found out -

"No, thanks, Ed," he finally says, proud that he remembered not to add the "dy." "I - I think I'll take a rain check."

Eddy snorts like a pig. "Suit yourself. We're here."

He pulls the car into a parking space and steps on the brake hard, so that the car goes from 60 miles per hour to zero in about three seconds. Good thing he was wearing his seatbelt, or else he'd be halfway across the parking lot by now.

Eddy jumps out of the driver's seat and hits the ground. "Come on, Cousin Drew! The night's young, dude, seriously!"

That's a trillion and one. He moans and peels himself out of his seat, rubbing the red mark where his seatbelt dug into his neck. "Oh, man, Ed. I think you just tore out my spleen or something."

Eddy wrinkles his nose at him, folding up the half-mustache on his upper lip. "Don't be a whiner, dude! It's one of them extra organs, anyway, I think."

That's not very encouraging.

The mall's big inside, bright against the outside darkness he can see through the windows, and for a second he feels something strange. Something wild and crazy - a thrill, he guesses it's called. He's about to break about half of his mother's fifty thousand rules, and he feels _good_.

He lets himself smile. Just one night - it couldn't be so bad. He has to have a chance to see what being a normal teenage boy is like, right?

"There!" Eddy points his whole arm at a store at one end of the mall, just beyond the fountain that he loves. "That's it! An Art-ist-ic Touch!"

Sounds like they paint windows or something. A little shiver goes up his backbone, and he rubs his rash again. "Are you _sure_, Eddy?"

Eddy doesn't answer, not with words. Just grabs his arm and tows him all the way to the bright red letters over the tattoo parlor. He's pretty sure that's Eddy for, "Of course I'm sure."

Music blares from inside, so loud it shakes the floorboards under him. A bunch of guys with bandanas tied around their heads and hair like Eddy's are standing around inside, not really doing or looking at anything. They've all got tattoos, most of them more than one. Their whole arms look like the church's stained glass windows, only he's pretty sure churches wouldn't put ladies in swimsuits on their windows.

The thrill goes away, and he feels - oh, no, he feels scared. A little bit. His feet are stuck to the floor - maybe he stepped in gum or something. . .

"Let's go in, Drew!" Eddy tugs his arm again. "Come _on_!"

He looks up at his cousin, and he sees a sign right over his head. He's not sure whether to feel relieved or disappointed by what it says. "Eddy - 'You must be twenty-one to get a tattoo unaccompanied by a parent or guardian.'"

Eddy twists around and stares up at the sign like it's written in Chinese. "Huh?"

He sighs from his toes. Eddy doesn't know a lot of big words, like he does. "They need your mom or dad to come in and say they're letting you get a tattoo. So - I guess we have to go home now. Or to the food court," he adds quickly. "I could really go for one of those chocolate chip muffins right about now."

Eddy grins, and for a minute, he almost looks like the bad guy on the James Bond movies Mother won't let him see. He looks - sneaky. "That's what this little baby's for."

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out, not a baby, but a little square of plastic that looks like his driver's license. But - his stomach churns as he leans in to examine it - it's got a birthdate that he knows isn't Eddy's. It's got a birthdate that makes him twenty-three years old.

His mouth won't work, his throat won't work, his lungs won't work. "Ed-Eddy," he finally manages to stutter, feeling dizzy, "where did you g-get that?"

Eddy wags it under his nose, so that he sees two of it. "Friends at school," he says proudly. "I can get you one, too, Drew. Seriously, I can."

That's a trillion and two. He feels like he wasn't looking where he was going and fell into a swimming pool or maybe right off the edge of the Grand Canyon. "Is that one of those - those - those whaddayacallits?"

Eddy stuffs it back into his pocket. "Fake IDs. Yep."

"Eddy -" he hears his voice go up and crack, and he can't make it go back down. Darn vocal chords - "Eddy, that's _against the law_!"

His cousin acts like he doesn't hear him. The cousin who used to splash him in the pool, the cousin he remembers getting Band-Aids for when he was learning to ride a two-wheeler, walks right on into the tattoo parlor with his illegal square of plastic and he has no choice but to follow.

The place smells like cigarette smoke, and he puts his hand up over his nose. The music's so loud he's sure he's going to be deaf for the rest of his life. He can barely hear the thud of his heart in his ears, but he can sure feel it.

Eddy's showing his ID to a guy with tattoos on his _face _and waving his arms wildly. He can't hear Eddy - so he _knows _he must be going deaf; Eddy's _loud_! - but he knows he's telling him that he wants the letters "E-D" on his left bicep.

He walks over to the two of them, slowly, slowly, because all of these guys look like they could eat him on a cracker and pick their teeth with his bones. He wants to be back in his own room, not smelling like smoke, not feeling scared, curled up on the bed with the - okay, with the stuffed monkey and the blankie. He's freaked out enough to want them.

Eddy looks at him then, eyes confused. "That's how you spell, 'Ed,' right, Drew? E-D?"

For a second, his chest hurts for his younger cousin. "Yeah. It is."

The face-tattooed guy looks at him like he thinks he doesn't belong here. "Who's this?"

Eddy grunts and grins. "Little cousin - Drew."

Ohhh. He feels his face go bright red, the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. He'll pay for making him have to pretend to be younger, even if he looks the part.

"How old?" Face Tattoos asks.

He swallows and tries to make his voice go deeper. "Sev-seventeen." It cracks anyway.

"He's not gettin' a tattoo, dude." Eddy puts an arm around Face Tattoo's shoulder like they're best friends. "So, he can stay, right?"

Face Tattoos pulls a toothpick out of his jeans and pokes it into his mouth. "I s'pose."

Maybe he doesn't want to stay. His stomach's really hurting and the rash is really itching.

But he can't move. His feet are gummed to the floor again, and all he can do is stand there as the big guys get Eddy onto a stool and pull out a needle - at least they wipe it off -

And plunge it into his cousin's arm.

Eddy _screams_. He hasn't heard Eddy scream since he was about seven years old. He scrambles backward, far, far away from what's hurting his cousin, because he knows if it can hurt Eddy, it can hurt him ten times worse. And the whole time someone else is yelping like a puppy whose paws have been stepped on.

Only when Eddy squints at him and says, voice thick, "I'm okay, dude. Seriously, I am," does he realize it's _him_.

He can barely see the people in front of him. They look like blobs of grease. "Um, dude," he says - the word tastes funny in his mouth. "I - I need to go to the bathroom."

His eyes lock with Eddy's for a minute, and he knows his cousin's seeing the real message in his eyes. _I need to get some fresh air - before I regurgitate._

"Suit yourself. The bathroom's -" Face Tattoos begins, but he's halfway out the door already.

He makes it to the fountain and lays down on the carpet next to it, trying to make his heart stop racing so fast, his arms stop itching so bad. He's not sure how long he stays like that, curled up and shaking in the middle of the mall, until he's finally sure he's not going to throw up after all.

He pushes himself up on his arms - weakly, he still doesn't feel too great - and drags himself over to the fountain to look inside it. The sound of the rushing water is kind of relaxing, somehow. If he closes his eyes, he can imagine he's at the beach or something, far, far away from high school and all its problems.

He peers at himself in the water - a wavy, pale reflection, broken up by the pennies at the bottom of the fountain. When he was little, he used to throw pennies in there and make wishes. Now, of course, he knows it's not scientifically possible for the pennies to grant wishes; all they're doing is corroding the water.

Eddy could probably pass for being an adult, but he knows he can't. Eddy -

He swallows hard and tries to wrestle the throw-up feeling away again. Eddy's big and strong and handsome. He's captain of the football team, and, unlike most of its members, he gets pretty decent grades, too. He's got a mom _and _a dad.

He scowls at his reflection. And he's just Drew, with his glasses and his chemical rashes and his eyebrows growing together.

The smell of chocolate chip muffins from the food court reaches his nose. He expects it to make him feel queasy again, but his stomach growls that it wants something to eat, so he heads over.

_She's _on duty. He barely manages to order a muffin, and when he pays, he drops his quarters all over the floor.

She bends down and picks them up for him. Her nametag says, "Tammy." She has a really, really nice smile.

As he slides the quarters across the counter with sweaty palms, Tammy's eyes get recognizingful. "Hey, it's you."

He glances behind him to see who she's talking to. Pretty girls don't talk to Drew Lipsky.

But there's nobody behind him. He's the only one in the food court. "Me?" he whispers.

She grins. "Yeah, you. Haven't seen you in a while, cutie."

He rips the muffin in half.

"Oops." Tammy giggles then. "Sorry 'bout that. How about we start with the basics? Hi, I'm Tammy, and I'll be your server tonight. And what's your name?"

He just forgot.

"Uhh. . . uhh. . ." He swallows his hardest swallow yet. "Drew."

"So - what brings you back, Drew? Where's your brother?" Tammy leans forward, like she's actually interested.

His mouth can barely move. This cannot be happening. He must be dreaming. "Eddy's my cousin. He's - he's -"

He leans in and lowers his voice, because he doesn't want the whole mall to hear. "He's in the tattoo parlor."

Tammy raises an eyebrow, still grinning. "Oooh. Does his momma know?"

"No." He stuffs a hunk of muffin into his mouth and chews with his mouth closed, because girls don't like boys with bad manners. It tastes extra sweet.

"So - what's that on your arm?" Tammy finally asks, once he's finished his muffin and his stomach's full and happy. "You get poison ivy or something?"

"No." He shoves his glasses up his nose, remembering immediately that's about the geekiest thing you can do. "I - I mixed the wrong chemicals together, see, and I wound up giving myself a rash."

"Well, that stinks." She wipes her hands on her apron. "You know, baking soda on poison ivy works wonders. I'm not sure if it works for chemical rashes, though."

"Oh - okay." He manages to grin with wobbly lips. "Thanks."

It gets quiet. So quiet he can hear the fountain bubbling behind them. His legs need to move - suddenly - bizarre muscle cramp, he's sure - so he gets up and brushes the crumbs off his shirt. "I probably better go get Eddy," he stammers.

He's not sure _what_ comes over him, but he reaches his hand down and bows to her. "Thank you for the excellent service, m'lady."

Tammy stands up off her stool and curtsies. "'Twas an honor to you serve you, fair knight," she chuckles. She takes his hand and she - _kisses _it.

His first kiss.

Balloons and confetti don't fall from the sky. Trumpets don't sound. But they should.

He bounds across the mall - his feet feel like they're made of helium, which is lighter than plain ol' air - until he reaches the smoky-smelling, loud tattoo parlor. He stares at his hand in awe for a minute before he goes in. It almost looks like it's glowing. Or maybe that's just lipstick.

All of that leaves his mind once he sees Eddy slouched outside against the wall. Right there on his big arm is the word "ED" in huge black letters.

He did it. He actually _did _it. He's either really brave or really stupid.

He squats down next to his cousin, starting to feel shaky and tired from all the excitement. "Hey," he says.

Eddy grins. "I got it, Drew. I finally got it!"

He can see. "Did - did you cry?" he finds himself asking quietly.

"Nah," says Eddy's mouth.

_Yes, _say his eyes. And not just the look in them. He can see wet spots glistening under them, smeared where his cousin tried to wipe them away.

He doesn't tell Eddy he knows, though. Eddy already knows he knows, he can tell. His head is spinning.

"Good," is all he says. "Let's go home, then."

"Home?" Eddy yells as they walk out to the car. "The night's _still _young, dude, seriously!" A trillion and three.

"And - " His cousin grabs his hand and looks at the red lip-print on the back of it. His eyebrows go up three times in a row. - "Looks like you got somethin' to celebrate, too."

His mouth turns to cotton candy. Not literally, but it feels like it. "Yeah. The girl - at the food court - her name's Tammy - I bought a muffin - and - "

That's all Eddy needs to hear. He whaps him on the back so hard it hurts. "Way to go, Drew!" he yells for the entire parking lot to hear. "Welcome to manhood, cuz!"

The sizzling thrill's back. He feels - different, somehow. Rebellious and wild. Maybe that's how it feels to be manly.

"We gotta celebrate," Eddy says as they pile into the car. "I mean, as long as I got the fake ID, right?"

He feels his eyebrows pulling closer together than ever in a frown. Buckling his seatbelt, he asks, "They card you to buy candy nowadays?"

Eddy throws back his head and howls as he sticks his keys in the ignition. "You're clueless. Seriously!"

A trillion and - oh, forget it. He has a sneaky feeling, somewhere in the back of his mind, what Eddy means, but he doesn't want to think about it.

"Maybe some other time, Eddy," he finally answers. "If I don't get home soon, Mother will start asking questions. Speaking of which - " an awful thought hits him - "what are your parents gonna say when they see your arm?"

Eddy zooms out of the parking lot a little faster than he's supposed to. "Who knows? Who cares?"

His heart thuds. "What do you mean?"

"I'm sick of everybody dissin' me, that's what I mean. My teachers don't appreciate my geniusness. They don't care that I can fix, like, any car engine in the world. They just care that I can't spell 'engine.'"

He nods. He understands _that_.

"And Mom and Dad don't like my hair or the kids I hang out with, and they keep tellin' me to get back on the straight and narrow." Eddy flashes him a big grin. "I told 'em I can't drive good on the straight and narrow."

He surprises himself by laughing.

"Well, I ain't gonna take it anymore!" Eddy hollers, but he doesn't sound mad. Just determined. "Someday I'm gonna blow this crummy little town, get into the races or somethin' - maybe build cars for a living! Then no one will ever dare to diss my Edness again!" He lowers the window and spits out it. "Look out, world! Ed Lipsky has been born!"

Ed Lipsky was born a long time ago, but he can't make his mouth move to tell him that. So he just rolls down his window and spits out it, too. Only he just winds up slobbering on the side of the car.

Eddy raises an eyebrow. "My dad's gonna make you wash that."

He grins and Eddy grins and they tell jokes the rest of the way home. Most of Eddy's, he doesn't quite understand, but he's not about to say that. Not when he's been feeling like such a man.

He doesn't ever want to get the lipstick-print off his hand, but he wipes it on his jeans before he goes in the front door of his house. He _really _doesn't want to have to answer Mother's questions.

As it is, all she says is, "How was your time at the mall, Drewbie?"

"Fine." He examines the WELCOME mat.

__

Just fine, Mother. I got my first kiss from a girl whose name I didn't know until tonight, and your nephew got his name tattooed on his arm.

He washes his face and gets into his pajamas and flops down on his bed. But he feels funny - really, really funny - like nothing will ever be the same again.

It takes him a while to fall asleep.


	27. Intermission

NOTE: This was originally going to represent "Deep in Thought," but it wound up not fitting at all. I still like, though, so it's being posted as a brief intermission. Sit back and please enjoy. . .

**Ron and Drakken Get Stranded in an Elevator**

**(Supporting Appearances by Rufus and Hana)**

"We haven't stolen anything!"

Shego's voice comes out so fierce, he cringes inside, and he's not even the one being yelled at. Kim Possible, though, doesn't even blink. "Wade says you did. Of course I'm going to trust his word over yours."

Shego rolls her eyes. "Well, get this, _Princess_." She hisses out the word like she really means, "sack of dirt." "Your little computer geek might have actually made a mistake."

The buffoon props his hands on his hips. "Perish the thought, Shego! Wade does _not _make mistakes! Period!"

Kim Possible nods her agreement. "Exactly. So we can do this the easy way - or the hard way."

Shego grunts. "What, do you subscribe to the Cliche of the Month Club or something? I've heard that twenty-five times in the last _week_!"

Hmm. So has he, come to think of it. Of course, he's never sure what it means. Is surrendering supposed to be the easy way or the hard way?

His heart is thumping around in his chest, and he knows that's ridiculous. He doesn't have anything to be scared of, considering Shego's right. They _didn't _steal anything.

Unless they're talking about the latest issue of _Highlights_ crammed into his back pocket. But that's just a waiting room magazine. Nobody will miss it. And it's not like he can exactly use it for world domination.

It's just a minor theft to make sure he hasn't lost his edge.

"And I think we'll choose Option C: None of the above!" Huh? Oh, Shego's talking again.

And moving. In the space of a heartbeat, she's run over to the door marked "STAIRS" opened it, run in, and closed it again.

Kim Possible shoves past him - doesn't even say "excuse me;" how rude - and flings open the door. "Get back here, Shego!" she hollers up the steps.

He snickers a little to himself. Shego won't listen to her. Shego doesn't listen to anybody - not even him, really.

Hmmm. . . That's not a good thing. Maybe he's losing his edge after all.

But Kim Possible apparently isn't actually expecting Shego to listen to her, because she takes off up the stairs after her. And he's not sure what to do. Should he follow Shego? She can handle Kim Possible on her own, but that stupid cheerleader probably won't give up until Shego gives back whatever it is she's stolen. That could be a problem, since she hasn't stolen anything.

Maybe he should just go home and wait for her. No, then she'd get mad at him for abandoning her. Never mind that she abandoned him for - how long was that - three, four days? Just last week, too. And he couldn't get his pickle jar open and he couldn't eat and he forgot to sleep. . .

"I'm comin', KP!" The buffoon's voice interrupts his thoughts. When he looks up, the kid is diving for the elevator.

Elevator! It's much faster than the stairs. If he hurries, he can get to the top _before _Shego and Kim Possible. He chuckles, picturing the look on Kim Possible's face when he greets her at the top floor of the hospital building, grinning smugly in her face. She'll drop down to her knees and admit once and for all that he's all that and she's not -

Oh, right. The elevator doors are almost closing.

With three big leaps, he trips over the edge of the rug and falls headlong into the elevator, nearly crashing into the buffoon in the process. The elevator doors ding shut behind him.

"Ha!" he cries. The buffoon gasps in fear.

"Drakken!" he yells. "Get outta the elevator!"

"I can't," he retorts smugly. "The doors are _closed_." Ooh, that sounded so good. Holding his head high, he reaches over and presses a button.

"Dude!" The buffoon makes a face at him. "You just pressed Floor 3. They're gonna be all the way at the top - that's Floor 6." He pokes the button marked "6."

His lower lip crawls out all by itself. No. He has to push the button to take them to the correct floor. Otherwise, this goofball kid will get all the credit and _he'll _look like all that. That just won't do.

So he jams the "6" button seventeen times and then presses the button marked "UP" twice for good measure. The elevator groans like it just ate twelve boxes of cupcakes, drops a little - it feels like his legs go down first, and then his stomach, and then the rest of him.

There's a screeching sound, metal against metal. He knows from hundreds of Doomsday devices that this is not a good noise. And the elevator stops moving.

"Whoa." The buffoon hangs onto the elevator wall with one hand and his head with the other. "I think we just entered the second dimension or something."

He squints at the electronic number-displayer on the wall. "We're on floor 36."

The kid grunts and cradles what he's just now noticed he's wearing around his neck. It looks like a very small sleeping bag. "But. . . this building doesn't _have _a floor 36."

"Oh." He considers that. "Then. . . the elevator must be broken."

It takes a second for that to sink in. It must hit the buffoon at the same time it hits him, because he wails, "WE'RE STUCK!"

"WE'RE STRANDED!" he, himself, yells.

The kid starts banging on the wall with his fists, like he thinks that's going to break them out. "KP!" he hollers. "KP, help! We're stuck in the elevator! Can you hear me, KP?"

"Shego!" he chimes in. "Shego, get us out of here!"

Hours go by, days, weeks, months. . .

Okay, according to the buffoon's watch, it's only been about five minutes. But it sure feels like a long time.

"Man, I hope she's not too bored," the kid says. He pulls back part of the sleeping bag and coos inside, sounding like he's talking to Commodore Puddles.

He leans in closer. Since when does he carry Rufus around in a little sleeping bag?

But it's not Rufus. The face that peers back at him is young - like, baby-young. And female. And Japanese.

It's _her_. She's turned herself into a baby, and she's going to haunt him for the rest of his life, because he made one awful mistake that he can't get away from.

He _screams_ and jumps across the elevator as fast as he can, smashing into the opposite wall. He forgot how small this moving room (that's currently not moving) is.

"No, no, no." He puts his hands up over his face and breathes as hard as he can into them, panting out memories, trying to get rid of that night. "No, go away. Go away. I didn't mean it. . . well, I did then. . . but I'm sorry now. Please just go away."

His throat's burning, and he barely feels a hand on his shoulder. "Dr. D?"

It's the buffoon's voice. "Dude? Did something - something happen?"

"Who's that. . .girl?" he manages to squawk.

When he looks up, the buffoon is grinning like he's won total control of the world. "Meet the newest addition to the Stoppable clan. This is my baby sister, Hana."

It's _not _her. Her skin's too dark - her eyes are shaped different - it's not her. He clings to the elevator wall and breathes the biggest sigh of relief he's ever let out.

"Oh." He leans in closer, closer.

She's so _little_. She's got everything a full-grown person needs - right down to the eyebrows and the toenails and the elbows, but they're all so tiny. It's like someone took a normal-sized person and made them tiny and chubby and adorable -

He shakes himself. No, no, no. Getting like this over babies is the first step to going soft. He's heard that - _Villains _magazine always warns about that. Besides, she's not completely the same as an adult. She still needs a few more sets of teeth.

He runs his tongue over his own teeth, and, for some reason, he can't take his eyes off Hana. Her eyes are so big, so black. . .

She must have some kind of mind-control laser beam in her eyes. Because he suddenly has the incredible, irrational, overwhelming urge to - to - to -

To tickle her under the chin and say, "Coochy-coochy-coo."

When he does, she bursts into giggles and flails her arms around like he's the most wonderful person since Snowman Hank, who's not actually a person. Something in his chest softens.

"Han!" the buffoon yelps in horror. "Don't fall for it - he's evil!"

Hana's face falls into a scowl. She opens her tiny mouth and sticks out her itty-bitty pink tongue of a point. . . point of a tongue. His head is spinning.

Humph. Now even infants are mocking him. He sticks his tongue out back at her.

She likes that, because she claps her hands and starts squealing. "Fun-ny!" she says.

To his surprise, the buffoon starts jiggling her sleeping bag on his knee. "Is he funny, Hana? Is he a funny man?"

"Yeh." Hana keeps giggling.

The kid runs a hand over the top of her hair. . . her soft, dark hair. "What color is the funny man, Hana?"

Hana just giggles and sticks out her tongue again.

He hears his own voice say, "The funny man's blue, Hana. Can you say 'blue'?"

Hana wrinkles her little nose. "Bloo."

"Hey!" The buffoon grins from ear to ear. "She's never said that before!"

He feels light suddenly, light and happy. He taught a baby a new word! He's passing his genius on to the next generation!

Dr. Drakken, infant educator. He sighs happily. Who would have ever thought?

Hana decides now would be a really good time to stuff a graham cracker into his mouth. It nearly goes all the way down his throat.

He coughs and sputters and spits out a couple of cinnamon crumbs, but. . . oh, man. It tastes good when he chews it.

"Han!" Kim Possible's boyfriend pulls back her hands. "You shouldn't be wasting food! We need to conserve every morsel! I mean, who knows how long we'll be in here?"

Ohhh, boy. He's almost forgotten they're stuck in an elevator. He sinks down to the floor and closes his eyes, trying to get in touch with his inner workings.

"I'm not that hungry," he announces. But he feels something even worse. "Uh-oh."

The buffoon eyes him suspiciously. "What's uh-oh?"

He bites his lip. "I think I might need to go to the bathroom."

The kid slams his head against the opposite wall. "Great."

"Here," a little voice squeaks from the floor.

He looks down. It's Rufus, holding one of Hana's diapers over his head.

The

temperature in the elevator surges, and he knocks the diaper away. "Very funny, rodent," he snaps.

"Hey!" Rufus squalls. He scrambles up onto the blond kid's head and sticks out his tongue.

Great. Now he's a _rude _vermin.

"This is all your fault, you know," the kid finally says.

Anger prickles the back of his neck. "What do you mean, all my fault?"

The buffoon stabs a finger at him. "You messed up the elevator! You stole. . . whatever it is you stole!"

. It's too much. Reaching into his back pocket, he flings the _Highlights _to the ground.

"There!" he snaps. "That's all I stole, okay? It's a magazine!"

The kid blinks. "That's it?"

"That's it."

"But - but - but -" The buffoon squints at him. "Why would you go all the way to the doctor's office just to steal a magazine?"

"I didn't go to the doctor's office to steal a magazine!" he yells back. "I went because I had an appointment!"

Something seems to click into place in the kid's brain. "You mean - "

"Yes, dumbbell." He snorts, Shego-style. "Even villains need to see the doctor."

The dopey sidekick suddenly screams and flings his arms protectively around the sleeping bag around his neck. "You shall not infect my baby sister!" he hollers. "Stay away from her with your villain germs!"

That actually hurts. "Let's just hope _buffoonery _isn't

contagious!" he retorts.

"Well, no more than - than - than - wanting-to-take-over-the-world-ery! Or all-of-my-plans-explode-in-my-face-ery! Or bad-at-being-a-bad-guy-ery!" The buffoon lets that hang in the air, chest heaving.

It hurts worse. "It was a CHECKUP, okay? I came for my six-month checkup!"

There's a very long silence in the elevator. He sinks to the floor, and the buffoon joins in.

"So. . ." the kid coughs. "You doin' okay?"

"Hmm?" It takes him a minute to realize that he must be talking about the checkup. "Oh, right. Yes, I'm fine."

"That's good."

More silence.

"I've got a name, you know," the kid finally says. "It's Ron. Ron Stoppable."

Right. That sounds familiar. "I know. I just never remember it," he admits.

"You always remember Kim's name," Ron points out. He sticks out his lower lip in a pout.

Hmm. That's true. The mind is such a fascinating place, what it can remember and what it can't. . .

He changes the subject. "So - Hana - she's -"

"Adopted. But it doesn't matter." Ron tickles the baby under the chin. "I loved her right from the moment I saw her."

"Uh-uh." From his perch on top of Ron's head, Rufus shakes a finger.

"Okay, fine." Ron rolls his eyes. "It took a little while for me to get used to her." He grins into the sleeping bag. "But now we're the best of friends, aren't we, Hana? Aren't we? Aren't we? Aren't we?" With each sentence, his voice gets higher and higher.

His throat gets thick for some reason. "Oh." He needs to look at the floor. It's dirty and scuffed. Someone dropped graham cracker crumbs on it.

Ron's looking at him. He can feel it. "Only child?" he asks.

He nods.

Stoppable moves closer. "Not a happy childhood?"

He makes himself bark out a laugh. "I'm a mad scientist bent on world conquest! What do _you _think?"

Ron rubs the back of his neck, awkwardly. "Wanna. . . talk about it or anythin'?"

He swallows hard and considers that. Maybe - maybe if this kid knows where he's coming from, maybe if he feels sorry for him, he'll decide to let him take over the world after all. "Well - I was born very young - "

Ron cuts him off. "Were you, like, premature or something? You couldn't breathe? That's why you're blue?"

He stares at him in disbelief. "I wasn't born blue, Stoppable!"

"You weren't?" Ron tilts his head, and Rufus slides to the ground.

"No." He folds his arms over his chest and grunts. "I wasn't. Matter of fact, it was only a few years ago. A Tuesday, if I remember correctly - "

"Wait!" This kid has a real problem with interrupting adults. "You remembered my name!"

"Sure; big deal." Why does no one ever let him finish this story?

"Say it again!" Ron parks his hands on his hips. "Like, twenty-five more times!"

He groans. "Stoppable. Stoppable. Stoppable stoppable stoppable stoppable stoppable stoppable stoppable stoppable stoppable stoppable stobbaple stopbablpe stoppliable stoppable stoopable stoppable stoppable stoppable stoppable -"

His tongue hurts. "Now it doesn't even sound like a word anymore."

Ron rubs his chin. "You're right. It just sounds like a noise."

Hmm. This could be a very important scientific breakthrough. "I wonder if all words are like that?"

"Well, let's see." Ron closes his eyes and begins to recite, "Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers. A peck of pickled peppers, Peter Piper picked. If Peter Piper picked a peck - "

"No, no, no. You have to say the _same _word over and over, not a bunch of different ones." He can't resist an eye-roll; doesn't the buffoon know _any_thing?

"Oh. Okay." Ron suddenly looks over at the elevator panel, and his eyes light up. "Hey, look! If you push this button, you get a free fireman's hat!"

_He _wants a free fireman's hat. "That should be mine!" he yells.

"Why?" Ron shoots back.

"Because - because - because -" He gets to his feet, feels his knees pop a little, and remembers. "Because I'm older, that's why!"

"But I saw the button first!"

"I don't _care_!"

The kid's hands come out, and so do his. They slap frantically at each other, but, no matter how hard he tries, he can't get to any other part of his foe's body.

"Ha!" Ron pushes the button. "I win!"

And here he thought he liked him for a moment. "You'll pay for this, Ron Stoppable!" he declares, pointing his most villainous finger. "You shall pay!"

"NOT IF WE NEVER GET OUT OF THIS ELEVATOR!" Ron yelps. Hana seems to find that funny.

Suddenly, Ron starts to laugh, quiet at first and then louder and louder. Finally, he starts shaking his head and howling like he's watching a cartoon show.

Uh-oh. He's heard of such cases. Now he's going to go insane and start trying to eat him. And he's pretty sure he won't taste too good.

"I just thought of something," Ron says between chuckles. "This is kinda like when we got stuck at the North Pole together."

He forces a smile. "Yeah. I guess it kind of is. Only I don't have my cell phone this time."

Ron's laughter stops suddenly. He hits himself - hard - in the forehead. "Dude! I do!"

He glares at him. "You have my cell phone? How?"

"No!" Ron shakes his head. "I have _my _cell phone!"

It seems to take another few years, but finally, he hears a voice outside the elevator.

"Ron?" it calls. "Are you in there?"

He never, ever thought he'd be glad to hear Kim Possible's voice, but he's about ready to hug her. "We're in here, KP!" Ron hollers through the door. "We're in here!"

He slams his fists against the walls. Now that he knows he's almost out, he feels desperater than ever. "Shego!" he yells. "Shego, are you out there?"

There's a sigh. "Yeah. I'm here. Apparently, you stole a _magazine _and that's what got Kimmie here on our case?"

He can't talk about that right now. He shuffles his feet around to keep his mind off the very important fact he just remembered. "Shego - I need to get out _now_!"

"Oh, great." Even through the elevator wall, she sounds sarcastic. "Does that mean what I think it means?"

"Ye-e-es!" He bounces up and down, ponytail slapping the back of his neck. "Hur-rry!"

"Okay." It's Kim Possible again. "Wade says you guys are on the sixth floor, but the doors won't open. If I can just get to my - "

"Oh, for Pete's sake." There's a green glow, and the elevator door melts away. "There." Shego grunts. "Problem solved."

YESSSSSSSSSSS! FREEDOM!

He collapses out of the elevator and lands face-first on the ground. "Land! Glorious land!"

Ron's too busy kissing the floor to say anything.

"Thank you, Shego," his sidekick mumbles. "Thanks for saving my hiney yet again."

He opens his mouth, waiting for a retort. But before he can say anything, the doors burst open, and in come three firemen.

"Huh?" Rufus chitters.

The biggest fireman stares at the melted-away elevator door. "We got an emergency distress signal from the elevator."

"Oh." Ron chuckles nervously. "That's what that button was."

"Ro-on!" Kim Possible yells.

He'd really love to see how this turns out - but -

"Would you excuse me for a minute?" he hisses. And takes off toward the sign that says "Restrooms."

When he comes out of the stall, Ron's standing there. "I'm hiding from Shego," he explains.

"Oh." He concentrates on washing his hands - if he looks away, he'll flood the sink, he knows from experience. "Is she fighting with the firemen or something?"

"No way!" Ron shakes his head. "She just won't stop cooing over Han."

He sags against the sink in relief. If Shego's cooing over a baby, it _can't _be a sign of going soft.

So. That's it, then. No more hurting little girls - ever.

He walks out of the restroom, stiffly, not looking to either side -

And _not _looking back over his shoulder at Hana.

"Did you see her?" he asks as Shego steers the hovercraft toward home. The police let him off with a warning for the magazine - since nobody really cares about waiting room magazines - and for "911 abuse." But he can still feel their stares prickling between his shoulder blades.

"Who?" Shego asks, sounding bored. "Stoppable's new sister?"

"Yes." He watches his feet swing back and forth under his seat. "Isn't she - you know, cute?"

Shego actually smiles. "Sure she is. She's a doll."

He swings his feet faster and watches them speed up. "She's so - little. Was I ever that little?" He's not sure why he just asked that - how would Shego know?

"Well - I wasn't exactly there." Shego glances over at him. "But you were probably littler. I mean, your mom's just an itty-bitty thing."

He swallows hard. That darn lump is back in his throat again.

Just as fast, the grin disappears and Shego raises an eyebrow. "Are you gonna try some weird mind-control-in-baby-food scheme now, Doc?"

"No, Shego." He sets his jaw. "No baby schemes. None."

"Mmm-kay." Shego taps her fingernails on the steering gears. "Then - why are we having this conversation?"

Something squirms in his stomach until he blurts out, "Look, just because I think ONE infant is CUTE, it doesn't mean I'M going SOFT or anything, okay?"

"Whoa." Shego raises her other eyebrow. "Not sure how we got on that train, Dr. D. I never said anything about you going soft."

"Well - well - well - " The words won't come. "Well - don't! Don't even _think _it!"

"No prob." Shego's already back to watching the sky in front of them.

A sunset. A pretty sunset.

He refuses to see those black eyes and hear those sweet little giggles. _Refuses _to.

ANOTHER NOTE: The "her" that Drakken mistook Hana for was the little Japanese girl who was nearly killed in the Diablo attack. I imagine her face haunted him for quite some type once he came off that power-high.


	28. Insanity

WARNING: Definite Teen-borderage. If anyone thinks I should bump up the rating, let me know.

See end for author's notes.

**Insanity**

He's hunched over the designs he stole from that video-game-maker, nose nearly touching the blueprints, when it happens. He hasn't slept for days, but he's not tired. Not with all the coffee he keeps guzzling.

Matter of fact, he's about as excited as he knows how to be. So excited he has to keep jumping up and running around the room just to get some nervous energy out. Because this is his greatest plan yet. It makes him tingle just to think about it.

He squints at the writing. _Little Diablo_. Perfect.

__

Cute, yet deadly.

It's a Voice.

Not a nagging little rude thought in the back of his head, but an actual voice, talking out loud. He can actually _hear _it. And that, he knows, is not good.

Nope. This is the kind of thing that sends people into asylums.

"Who are you?" he whimpers. He grips the edge of his desk, wanting to yell for Shego. But he knows she won't be able to hear the Voice.

__

Oh, that's not important now.

It doesn't sound scary. It's thick and soft, and something about it makes him want to listen.

____

I have something to show you, Drakken.

He swallows hard, and then he sees.

Pictures. Himself sitting on a solid gold throne, jeweled crown on his head, beaming with joy as people bow down in front of him. "Drakken's a genius!" they say. "Dr. Drakken is the greatest!"

He grins then. Yep, that would be really nice.

"That's what I want," he whispers.

_I know. But guess what?_

"What?" he asks.

_There's more._

Money. Stacks upon stacks upon stacks of money, all the way up to the ceiling. Gold. Silver. Jewels.

People fanning him with giant leaves, popping grapes into his mouth. He doesn't have to lift a finger.

Every country in the world, in the palm of his hand. Everyone cowering in fear of his name.

Power. Glory. Wealth.

He hasn't thought about that much before. Taking over the world - well, it was a way to prove himself. To show people he could do something, something big and impressive.

But he hasn't really seen the power, the glory, the wealth, the slaves - until now. And he wants it. He wants it all.

Something inside him starts shaking, and he can't make it stop. Can't make it go away.

__

You see, Drakken? This is what will satisfy you.

"That hungry feeling?" he whispers back. "That itch that never goes away?"

_Yes. Are you hungry?_

He licks his chops. "Starving."

_Then, come. Taste and eat._

He does.

He stares down into the bottom of his empty soda cup and wonders if it's possible to get drunk off pure sugar and caffeine.

Not that he's ever been drunk before - at least not that he knows of - but he feels weird. _Really _weird. Even though he's been alternating between guzzling soda and downing coffee all night long, he doesn't feel the urge to get up and run all over the lair, to rocket himself off the walls like a big blue Superball. The brain that usually feels like a hamster wheel trying to spin in twelve different directions at the same time is -

Calm. Cool. Focused.

_You do have me to thank for that, at least partially, Drakken_, the Voice purrs.

He nods and grins to himself as he surveys the scene before him. In front of him are two sheets of paper, filled with ideas - _his _ideas, only this time, it's going to be different. This time, he's not going to mess up and be mocked, humiliated, and arrested. This time, the world is going to be dominated.

He's so close, he can practically feel the weight of a crown on his head. And it feels good, sizzly good deep in his chest.

The pieces of paper even _look _different from every other plan he's ever written down. He's looked up every single word in the dictionary to make sure they're spelled right, and he's even managed to keep from doodling in the margins. That was what the _old _Drakken would have done.

But he's not the old Drakken anymore, and good riddance. The old Drakken was hated and poked fun at and looked down on worse than Drew Lipsky ever was. He wants to leave them _both _behind.

He is - Supreme Overlord Drakken. And Supreme Overlord Drakken will be powerful, wealthy, and - he grabs a word from way deep in the back of his mind - brutal.

Yes. A suitably evil word. The edges of his lips curl up slowly, smiling in a way he's never done before. _Brutal._ He likes it. Makes him sound like he's going to plunder the land with the weaponry his brilliant mind has created - like that new brain-tapping machine he put the finishing touches on just yesterday -

Whoa. The gears in his brain screech to a halt. He's going off on a bunny trail. Not focusing. Not focusing is _bad_.

He slaps himself straight across the face, hard. _No, Drakken, no. You're not going to get distracted. That's how all your other plans got ruined - because you couldn't focus._

For a terrible second, his eyes water and threaten to overflow. He's in pain - his cheek burns from being slapped, and the palm of his hand stings from slapping - his instinct is to cry.

But he can't. Supervillains don't cry. World conquerors don't cry.

He slams his lips together, shifts them from side to side, and shudders out a breath. Good. No tears come with it. The lump in his throat doesn't crack down the middle and let out squeaky sobs.

Curling his fingers around the edge of his coffee cup, he picks it up and takes a swig. He's come so far from being the old Drakken that he doesn't even mind the bitter taste anymore. Now - back to the plan.

It's so perfect, every detail coming together like a puzzle in his brain. Every thirty seconds, he's sitting straight up, yelling "A-ha!" as yet another light bulb goes on over his head.

Which is why it's especially important that Kim Possible not be able to foil it. This plan is so brilliant, so infallible, that she _can't _win. She just can't. Not this time. Not when he's so close.

_Don't panic, Overlord_, the Voice reminds him. _Panicking is bad._

It's right, of course. Panicking is bad. Control is good. And he currently needs control over his nemesis. Especially since, he realizes in horror, she's too close to the center of his plan.

Bueno Nacho. Hip teen hangout. _Their _hip teen hangout. If the Diablos are the slightest bit suspicious, she'll be on him before you could say, "you screwed up again."

So - turn the tables. Distract _her_. Find something that'll blind her to everything else.

But what? He frowns at the teen magazine spread out in front of him, scanning its articles for clues.

"Friends Don't Let Friends Drive Drunk." No.

"Getting Pierced." Huh-uh. He's not sure if Kim's _ears _are even pierced, much less her nose or her belly button.

"Are You Hot or Not?" He briefly considers a plan - invent a ray that turns people super-ugly, blast his foe with it, she'll be too embarrassed to leave her house.

Nah. He snorts and lets that idea fly away as fast as it came. Sounds too much like something the _old _Drakken would do. He needs something that she'll have no idea he's behind.

The rest of the titles blur before him. Eating disorders. Makeup. Fighting with your friends.

_Beep_, goes the timer on the table, reminding him that another hour has gone by. Time for a bathroom break. The last time he tried to work all the way through the night, running on caffeine like this, he forgot to set a timer for that and - well, it wasn't pretty.

He gets up out of his chair to the unpleasant tune - and even worse feeling - of his back cracking. For the first time in quite a few days, the bitter taste of fear fills his mouth.

Something's wrong, he thinks as he limps to the bathroom, rubbing his back as he goes. It shouldn't hurt to get up like that. He shouldn't sound like Rice Crispies.

He tries to reassure himself with the thought that maybe he's just been sitting down for too long, but he knows, deep down, what the problem is. He's just getting old. Weird, random aches come with aging, he knows, but - but - but -

But he doesn't want to get old, doesn't want to creak and pop and hurt. It'll only get worse and worse from here, until he needs a cane or something, and then he'll die and then where will he be?

The thought jolts him upright, snapping his back again. Where _will _he be? Not heaven, that's for sure - God probably doesn't let you into heaven if you've tried to take over the world - and, well, gee, there really aren't that many other options . . .

He crumbles against the sink and peers at himself in the mirror; he looks _awful_, worse than usual. His eyes are puffy and bloodshot, and the dark smudginess under them looks a lot bigger than he remembers it.

__

Where am I going?

_Drakken!_ The Voice goes sharp inside his head. _Stop that at once! Pull yourself together!_

Right. He's pondering world domination, not life. Or age. Or death.

__

Concentrate, Drakken. Just go to the bathroom and get back to work.

He does. When he gets back, the fan's blown the teen magazine open to a different page - "How to Snag A Hottie in Time For Prom."

Of _course_. That's Kim Possible's weakness - she goes ga-ga over guys. That's how he almost got rid of her that one time with the embarrassment potion. And if something goes wrong on the night of the big dance, it could scar her for life. He, of all people, should know.

He gathers up an evil laugh and lets it out triumphantly. This just keeps getting better and better. His Synthodrones. The foolproof ones. The ones that will do whatever he tells them to do. All he needs is to design a handsome face, add a little of that "perfect date" tweaking he gave the Bebes, and, bada-bing, bada-boom. A hottie too hot for Kim Possible to handle.

And while she's crushin' on Syntho-Hunk - he'll crush the _world_. He'd really, really like for that sassy little brat to be able to see his moment of ultimate conquest, but if she gets to be too much trouble before his plan is finished - he rubs his hands together madly - he can take care of that. He'll finally eliminate her.

_Why not just say it like it is, Drakken?_ the Voice asks softly.

Okay, fine. He'll finally _kill _her.

Thunder doesn't boom. Lightning doesn't crash, like in the movies. But every single part of him feels different, dark and dangerous, like something thick and powerful is running through his veins.

_What IS that?_ the tiny, scared-Drakken part of his brain that he thought he'd silenced cries.

There's a smile in the Voice now. _Why, my dear Drakken - that is evil. You have finally experienced evil._

His head spins. He's never felt anything quite like this before, and he loves it.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, part of him shrieks, _And I'm scared! I'm SO scared!_

_At last you are ready._ The Voice gently smooths over his doubts.

He swallows, throat lumping up. _For what?_

Its reply comes soft and chuckled. _To rule the world. _

That shuts up any lingering fears.

By the time Shego arrives at nine the next morning, the plan is perfected. Finished. And he's not telling her. What's the point? She'll only make fun of it.

Besides, reciting the plan was something the _old _Drakken did, something that held him back.

Shego stops dead in her tracks the instant her eyes land on him, and she lets out a low whistle. "Whoa, Doc," she mutters. "Your face is - uh - "

"Not exactly a vision of beauty, am I?" he asks dryly.

Shego grunts her agreement. "You look like Dracula with a hangover."

"Who's who with a what now?" That just slipped out.

No matter what Shego says, though, it doesn't matter. His ultimate plan is about to be put into action. Kim Possible is going to be, he thinks with with a wry laugh, one sorry patootie. The day he first said that seems far away, like it was part of another person's life entirely.

He grimaces and rubs his backside as he gets up out of the chair and heads to the bathroom for one last pit stop. He _has _one sorry patootie.

Come to think of it, he really doesn't have any right to feel so happy. Everything on him hurts, his eyes won't focus, and his stomach is not a happy camper from all that soda.

But - he grins at himself in the mirror, relishing the coldness he sees in his reflection's eyes - he's about to conquer the world. And nothing is too high a price to pay for that.

He curls up as tight as he can in the back of the paddy wagon, waiting for the nervous breakdown. Waiting for the tears to rush to his eyes.

But they don't. He can't even cry. He just lays there, wanting out of his own body. His chest hurts, his head hurts, his belly's twisting itself into a knot -

_So, Drakken._ The Voice is back, but it doesn't sound as smooth this time. It's sharp, angry. _You messed up again. You got yourself caught._

_This is your fault!_ he shoots back. _You told me what to do! You lied! You said it would make me happy! I'm. Not. Happy!_

_Oh, you can't blame me, boy, _it retorts. _I may have told you what to do, but you listened. And now you're stuck with the bill. _It sounds like it's smiling evilly. _Besides, you can't prove I did anything._

It's right. It's right, and he knows it, and he hates it. _Go away!_

"Believe me, I would if I could," he hears Shego say next to him through tight teeth. Has he been saying this out loud?

But it doesn't matter when the Voice starts in again. _I don't have to._

_Make it go away! Make it go away! Make it go away!_

"Boss? You okay?" His henchmen's voices sound far away.

He can't answer. "Make it go away!" he hollers again.

"Oh, crud. He's finally lost it," Shego mutters.

He squeezes himself up tighter and prays for the first time in months. "Please, God, make it go away."

Miraculously, the Voice shuts up. But it's only a temporary relief.

The next thing he knows, they've pulled up at the jail and the police are loading people out. They handle Shego gently, like they think she might break. That's silly. Shego doesn't break. She's invincible.

But when she raises her head, he sees dried blood on her cheek, and he feels like he's been kicked in the gut. Shego's hurt. Shego was bleeding.

Well, yeah. When Kim Possible kicked her into that electrical tower, he thought, for the scariest two minutes of his life, that she was dead.

The electrical tower _he _put up. And Kim kicked her because of _him_.

This is all his fault.

The henchmen they shove out roughly, and then they finally turn to him. They don't touch him, though. They look scared to touch him.

Weird. He's been waiting a long time for someone to be scared of him. Why isn't it making him happy?

"We're gonna have to get you out of those spotless shiny clothes of yours," one of the policemen sneers.

But his suit's _not _spotless. It's torn and dirty and has blood on it. Kim Possible's blood. Shego's blood. He saw them both bleed tonight. They did it to each other - but both because of _him_.

"Get me out of them. Please. They're dirty." He doesn't recognize his own voice. It sounds like he has laryngitis.

The police exchange looks, and he knows they're only dirty to him. He knows he's the only one seeing the blood.

They start to usher him out then. The instant one of the policemen touches him, he throws up.

Then they don't seem scared of him anymore.

What's the point in having a trial? Everyone already knows he's guilty.

He can't even wipe his wet eyes, because he's handcuffed. "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury," some guy says, "we ask that you find the defendant, Dr. Drakken, guilty of all charges against him. He is a menace to society!"

He doesn't feel like a menace to society. He feels very small and very sad and very, very scared.

He looks over to catch Shego's eyes, for just the tiniest bit of reassurance. Just a little, _Hey, it'll be okay. Jail couldn't hold us before, remember?_

But Shego won't look at him. Her eyes are fixed firmly on the judge. She hasn't looked at him ever since that terrible night when they got arrested, and that makes him feel even worse.

He _does _catch Kim Possible's eye. She and the buffoon - oh, come on, he just remembered his name last week! Stoppingham or something - are here to testify against him. They're holding hands. Since when do they hold hands?

Anyway, he catches Kim Possible's eye, and she looks back at him with - anger? Annoyance? Pity? All of the above?

The rest of the trial is a long, dull blur, before the judge looks down at him and thunders, "Dr. Drakken, how do you plead?"

He closes his eyes for a minute, seeing the Diablos falling from the sky, hearing his own evil laughter, smelling his own sweat, tasting his breakfast again, feeling his pounding heart. He takes a deep breath. "Guilty."

The judge declares a recess. It's so unfair. The members of the jury get to go outside and swing and slide and teeter-totter while he's stuck inside wondering what his fate is going to be.

"You didn't have to plead guilty," his lawyer moans. "You coulda pleaded insane. That probably would have gotten you a suspended sentence, maybe even time in an asylum instead. . ."

A cold shudder spreads through his whole body. "I don't want to go to an asylum."

The lawyer snorts. "Fine. You'll probably just get life in prison, then."

He closes his eyes. He could have pleaded insane. He could have said the Voice told him so.

But he knows it's only partially the Voice's fault. He listened.

The Voice didn't sound scary. It was smooth and silky, like the sliest used-car salesman. But, now that he thinks about it, there was a darkness in it.

Maybe there's a darkness in him, too.

NOTES:

So the Drama is really, really hard for me to address as an author. It's a well-made movie and an incredibly important event in the characters' lives that you can't ignore it. But Drakken is _so _out-of-character in it that it makes writing a STD-story from his perspective very challenging.

I've chosen to chalk it up to a power-trip coupled with temporary quasi-insanity. Believe me, my inner fangirl wants to cry, "He went bonkers! He didn't comprehend what he was doing!", but So the Drama makes it very clear that he understood perfectly.

So, as much as I'd love to say he's totally off his rocker in this story, he's not. At least not enough to get him off the hook for his behavior. Drakken's sanity is questionable on his best days - he's trying to conquer the world, after all - and at this point he hasn't been eating/sleeping well and he's under a great deal more stress than usual. All of that combined made his sanity take a nosedive - but not to the point where he was unaware of his actions.

The plot coming unravel, Eric's demise, and Shego being kicked into the electrical tower were, I believe, the key factors in snapping him out of this, but he still has to deal with the fallout - facing a life sentence in jail. Not to mention beginning to fear himself.

Okay, okay. Enough of my psychological ramblings for now. Hope you liked the story. See you guys later.


	29. Kick in the Head

**Kick in the Head**

He can't believe it. It's so wonderful, he's almost afraid to believe it.

Another opportunity to dominate the world - a second chance - has fallen out of the sky. Well, okay, it didn't actually fall out of the sky. It appeared on a spaceship and beamed him out of Cell Block D, away from the prison food and the cells and especially from Lucre. And that's good enough for him.

But it gets better. The person behind it - well, he's not sure if _person_is the right word - is a nine-foot-tall alien woman who calls herself "Warmonga." At first, he was kind of - well, not scared of her, not exactly. Just - what's the word? Uneasy?

Yeah. That's a good word. He congratulates himself for thinking of it.

So he was kind of uneasy around her, maybe because she had this thing that looked like a laser gun he invented once, only hers was much bigger. And it didn't look like it would break if you pulled the trigger, the way his did, which really disappointed him, because he stayed up all night trying to build it, finally conking out on his lab table at six-thirty the next morning. And it was pointed at his face.

But once she found out he was this Great Blue Person or whatever, she was silly putty in his hands. She pledged her eternal devotion to him - those were her exact words, and it made him feel all dizzy with delight - and promised to give him whatever weapons he needed to dominate this planet.

Heh-heh. It was part of his master scheme all along. Really, it was.

They already stopped at his secret Alpine lair to pick up his lab coat - his good ol' blue lab coat. He missed it so much in jail. It smells kind of musty from sitting in that closet for six months, but underneath that - underneath that, he can still make out a faint chemical scent. He only smelled that once in jail, and that was when the laundry room almost blew up. (Serves them right for letting Eddy work in there. He doesn't know the first thing about chemistry.)

He leans down to sniff it again - ahhh, it smells _good_. They should bottle that smell and sell it as cologne. It's awfully baggy, though, which he doesn't remember it being. Maybe it stretched out after not being worn for so long.

Now they're on their way back to his regular lair, the haunted island one that's not actually haunted. Hopefully the signs kept out any intruders.

They didn't.

His lair - his _home _- is trashed. His giant TV screen, the one that kept him up-to-date on what was happening on the planet he doesn't control yet, is smashed, shattered into dozens of pieces that he cringes away from. Shego always tells him not to touch broken glass, because he'll cut himself, and she doesn't want to have to take him to the emergency room again. "That wasn't my idea of a great day," she says.

Humph. He wasn't exactly having a blast, either.

There are big holes in the wall with plaster falling out and covering the ground, and pipes are leaking water all over the place. There are more puddles on the floor than the day he got Commodore Puddles (who's been staying at Mother's house while he's in jail). The couch - the soft, comfy couch he fell asleep on so many times - looks like it was slashed to ribbons, with a knife or something.

__

Razor blade.

The thought sends cold shivery needles up his spine, and he shudders away from it. Touches his arm without thinking about it. It still hurts a little.

Who did this to his lair? Who would be horrible and rebellious and - and - and - just plain _bad _enough to ignore signs that said, "KEEP OUT"? Who wouldn't be scared off by the "HAUNTED" signs?

__

Someone who knows the place isn't haunted.

Kim Possible!

That thought disappears, evaporates into water vapor when he turns around and sees graffiti on the side of the wall. "DRAKKEN'S A LOSER," it says in big letters. "HA-HA."

Everything in him wants to run away from it. He can almost feel the hatred coming off the letters in a big fist and smashing him into the opposite wall. But instead, he walks toward it - did someone magnetize it? - and reaches his fingers out to touch it.

They don't sizzle through his gloves and burn his fingers with acid, the way he expects them to. They don't even leave marks on his fingers, so the paint's dry. Whoever did this is long gone. He hopes they fell over the cliff and smashed into the beach and broke all their bones - and hit their funnybone in the process. No, _both _funnybones. He snorts in satisfaction at that idea.

But who would hate him enough to do this? Kim Possible is swift and cruel in her defeats - ooh, he likes that! It sounds very villainous - but she's not usually that mean to him. He still remembers the time she patted him on the head like he was a little puppy dog, and it makes his cheeks go red. She likes to demean him, not out-and-out insult him.

Now, the buffoon - he called him a loser once, he remembers. But he doesn't seem like the graffiti type, and the "HAUNTED" signs probably would have made him run away. The kid's a big fat scaredy-cat.

Is that a spider on the floor? He freezes.

Nope. Just a piece of lint. Phew. That was a close one.

But who else would do something like this - who else hates him enough to go to all this trouble?

Dementor!

No, he realizes, tilting his head to look at the graffiti-ing from another angle - maybe that'll make it make sense. If it were Dementor, a lot of it would probably be in German, and he would have signed it. It's a mad-scientist thing, he knows.

He turns around, still pondering it - he likes that word, _pondering _- when he sees a second blob of writing over the door. Hmm. What would someone write there? "Welcome to Dr. Drakken's Secret Lair. Please wipe your feet and mind the shark tank"?

No. His heart stops in mid-beat and it feels like it falls right down to his ankles.

It says - it says -

SHEGO ROCKS.

__

Shego.

_Shego _did this. The person he'd been waiting and waiting and waiting to break him out of jail, to give him her smirk and her eye-roll that told him that even though they drove each other crazy, they were still best friends and she didn't hate his guts. He doesn't see why she would. They're very nice guts.

She didn't just abandon him. She betrayed him.

It hurts worse than banging your funnybone, worse than when he cut his face, worse than all those times he's thrown his back out. He feels like he's been kicked in the head, punched in the gut, elbowed in the chest, stabbed in the arm - okay, he doesn't want to go there.

But he's not going to cry anymore. He cried way too much in jail; probably made everyone think he was a weak, wimpy supervillain. Which he's _not_. Not even _close_.

He closes his eyes and pictures Shego teasing him, all the times she's called him names and pinched his cheeks and told him his plans would never work if he didn't do something different. At least, he always thought she was teasing. It hurt his feelings, sure, but he knows she didn't mean it. After all, some people tease their friends to show them they like them. He found that out way too late.

Still - is it possible she wasn't? That she really meant every nasty thing she ever said to him? That, even though she was his best friend, he wasn't _hers_?

Has she thought he was a loser all this time?

The weak, wobbly, dizzy, queasy feeling comes back. The jail feeling. He leans against one of those water pipes and feels his heart thud against his aching ribs.

Sucks his breath in through his nose. He's not going to be weak anymore. That's probably why Shego left, because he was weak. Well, he's not anymore. He's the Great Blue, and with his _new _sidekick - his _new _bodyguard - Warmonga, he will rule the world.

Warmonga'll be much better, anyway. After all, she's nine feet tall and - well, Mother says it's not polite to think about a lady's weight, so he won't - and has all these intergalactic weapons, like something off _Star Trek_. Shego, now that he thinks about it, is a little and skinny and not too impressive. Sure, she has those superpowered glowy hands, but - well - that isn't _so _special. Lots of people probably have those.

Yeah. He narrows his eyes and lets the anger burn somewhere deep in him, in some organ he can't even name. Maybe his appendix; after all, it needs to do _some_thing. If Shego hates him, he can hate her back. She's not all that, either.

Anyway, he and Warmonga will conquer the world, and all the good guys will be scared of him, and all the bad guys will be jealous of him, and everyone in between will just be his servants. Oh, and Shego will be there, he knows, admitting what a wonderful supervillain he is and just begging him to take her back as his sidekick.

And - he feels a wicked grin spread over his face - he'll look at her with his eyes half-closed and say in a bored voice, "I'm sorry. Who are you again?"

Then she'll feel like she just got kicked in the head and punched in the gut and all that other stuff. And he and Warmonga will turn and walk away and not even _care_.

He squirms a little, shifting against the pipe. That little ache in his chest, that little tingle behind his eyes, it must be because he hasn't taken over the world yet. _Must _be.

Because, really, what else could it be?


	30. No Way Out

**No Way Out**

"Rise and shine, roomie!"

Something shakes his shoulder - hard - and his eyes fly open to chemical formulas two inches away from his face. His eyes are bleary, his glasses smudgy, and his nose is picking up the distinct - emphasis on _stink_ - odor of sour milk.

Where is he? What is this strange, blurry, chemicalish, milk-smelling place, and how did he get here? Is he still dreaming?

With great effort, he manages to lift his head up off what appears to be a. . . a desk? Oh, right. College. Dorm room. Fell asleep at his desk last night doing chemistry homework.

Everything makes sense now. He sighs with relief, feeling his shoulders relax. It's okay.

James is suddenly too close to his face, grinning at him. "Morning, Drew!" he says, and his voice sounds about twenty-two times deeper than normal. His ears are still half-asleep.

And his mouth hasn't re-figured out how to form words in it yet, but he opens it anyway. "Mehleheh," is all that comes out. Even _he _doesn't know what that means.

His roommate chuckles. "Up late partying last night?"

He frowns as he peels a page of chemistry homework from his sweaty cheek. He's heard about these big parties on campus on Friday nights, but he's never been invited to one of them. And neither, for all he knows, have James or Bob or Ramesh.

"No." He studies a bowl of strange compounds on his desk. At one point, they might have been Frosted Flakes with a lot of milk on them. Now, though, the flakes are limp and frostless, crumbly-looking, and the milk is forming little clumps. The smell turns his stomach, but the sight fascinates him. Maybe he should leave it out for a few more days and see what happens. "I was doing my homework."

"Homework on a Friday night," Bob mutters from across the dorm. He's got a mug of coffee in one hand, which smells kind of good but tastes awful. Plus, whenever he drinks it, the whole world suddenly starts whirling around and he gets the incredible urge to run a five-mile relay or swim the English Channel or. . . whatever, it's probably not natural. "Spoken like a true science geek."

He freezes, back stiff against the chair. Mocking reminders of the past start up again in his head, even though he tries not to let them. They don't listen to him. No one listens to him.

_Science geek. . . _

_Little Drewbie's a science geek!_ Mocking laughter.

_Hey, nerd, if you're so smart, why do you barely pass English? Why do you stutter a little and make those noises when we tease you?_ Imitating him, weird noises in squeaky voices.

_Take his lunch money!_ Hot breath.

_Hey, Drew. Did you miss us? Did you forget what a wedgie is?_ Angry hands, evil hands, painful hands. Fear.

_Nice new sneakers. How long did your _mom _have to work to get them? You know, since you don't have a dad anymore? _Sick feelings, hurt, fists coming toward him. _And how would they look with mud splashed all over them?_

_Oh, you want your chemistry set back? Do my science homework for a month. _No way out of that.

_Don't ever tell your mom about this - or we'll hurt you worse. _Can't breathe.

_Yeah - I got a pocketknife for my birthday. Tell anyone, and it won't just be our fists you answer to._

"I am _not _a science geek!" he yells, jerking his head toward Bob so hard his neck pops. The anger in his voice surprises him - he didn't realize he was feeling it that hard until it all came exploding out. "Don't _ever _call me that again!"

Bob, James, and Ramesh all look at each other like they just saw something move under the bed. The anger goes away slowly, replaced by embarrassment. He feels his cheeks go red and wishes they would all stop looking at him like he's a a bacteria - no, a bacteri_um_ - that's the singular form - under a microscope.

It's James who finally talks, chuckling like nothing's really funny, chuckling like he's nervous. "Whoa, there, Drew, calm down," he says softly. "We're all science geeks here. It wasn't an insult."

How can "geek" _not _be an insult? If they're his friends, why do they insult him?

"It is kind of a derogatory term," Ramesh chimes in. His sing-song voice always makes him feel either ten times better or ten times worse. This time, it makes his mood deterioratelate - worsify - embadden - it makes it a lot worse. His chest twists whenever he can't think of the right words, either.

"Perhaps we should come up with something more user-friendly," Ramesh keeps going. His voice sounds friendly, and he dares to look at him. His eyes are soft, like he understands. Or at least tries to.

He sniffs, shoves his glasses up his nose, and wills the moisture out of his eyes. He can't cry in front of three older, mostly bigger guys. Even short little Ramesh is bigger around than he is. When are those manly muscles going to show up, anyway? They must have gotten lost somewhere - couldn't find his address - or maybe they went to a different Drew Lipsky - if there's anyone else with that stupid name -

"How about 'genius'?" he suggests.

"That'll do." James reaches over and, to his horror, grabs the back of his neck with a big, square hand and pins his head down to the desk. His mouth is too dry to scream.

Carl's hands come back to him, his friends' hands, even worse bullies in college - their hands. Every bully he's ever known is suddenly pinning his head down, breathing hot breath down his neck, and everything in him malfunctions.

"Stop it!" he manages to yell finally. All his strength, he knows, won't get him out of James's grasp. He's older and bigger and - and - and -

The pressure comes off his neck. "Leave 'im, James." Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows that's Bob's voice.

He jumps up, knocking over his chair in the process, but he doesn't care. He needs to get far, far away from the touching hands. "Don't touch me," he hisses around a tongue that feels thick and hard to move. "Don't ever touch me."

"Drew, Drew, Drew." James shakes his head. "Calm down, would you?"

Everyone's staring at him again, and it's almost worse than the touching. He feels himself start to shake, knees clonging each other. His big, swollen knees that everyone can see. . . why didn't he put on long pants last night? "Sorry," he whispers.

"I just feel like I don't quite fit in with you guys," he murmurs to the grimy carpet. His mother, he knows, would have a fit if she saw this place. "I mean - you're all going to be rocket scientists or whatever -"

"Correction." Ramesh pokes a finger in the air. "James is studying to be a rocket scientist. Bob and I, however, are planning to become astronomers. Either way, though, we all kind of have our 'heads in the stars.'" He throws back his head and laughs at his own joke.

His lips smile stiffly. "But I'm studying to be a chemist. And you're older than me, and I -" He stops and tries to force his voice to go back down, to not crack and squeak and drift away. But it does anyway, as if to prove his point.

_When is it going to stop doing that? _It's been worse than usual lately, because his final grown-up voice is pretty deep - thank you, thank you, vocal chords - which makes the squawks sound even higher.

Sure enough, his roommates are trying to hide smiles behind their hands. Sure, they can laugh. _Their _voices all probably stopped doing that back in high school. "And that's why you've got the hard bed," James kind of laughs. "Sophomore dues."

He glares at him. "Last year, you said it was freshmen dues."

"Youngest dues, whatever." Bob shrugs. "Not a big deal. I had to do it when I first started."

_Real_ friends don't make you sleep on the worst bed. His back is going to be a mess when he's old. "And, because of all that, I feel like you guys don't _respect _me as much as you do - do - do - do - do - each other." Oh, for crying out loud. His voice creeps up again on "respect," and then the stutter comes back.

It's Ramesh's turn to giggle. "Oh, poor Drew."

Is that sarcasm? He can't tell. His stomach's starting to twist again.

"Tell you what, buddy." James puts an arm around his shoulders, and he flinches. But he doesn't pull away, because that'll make him seem like he's crazy. "There _is _something you can do."

A little glow starts in his chest. "I can help you guys with something?"

"Yeah." Bob elbows his way in. "You know that big dance that's coming up next weekend?"

His heart flutters a little. "Yeah?"

"Get us dates." Bob says it like it's just as easy as walking down to the cafeteria and buying some - four dates to go, extra hairspray, hold the pantyhose. "Then - you'll be a full-fledged member of the gang."

He feels his eyebrow spring up hopefully. "Really? You promise?"

"Cross our hearts." James crosses his heart, and Bob and Ramesh do the same thing.

Okay, then. If that's what it takes for his friends to finally like him and stop teasing him like that, then he'll do it. How hard can it be?

"Get lost, loser."

_That's _how hard it can be. Those words hurt worse than the girl who accidentally slammed his nose in the door. Or. . . maybe it wasn't an accident.

"You don't even have to go with me," he begs. His voice is going so high, even _he _can barely hear it. "You can go with one of my friends - have you heard of James Possible? Or Bob -"

Jennifer shakes back her hair and glares at him so fiercely, he expects flames to shoot out of her eyes and burn him to a crisp. Then at least he'd have a good excuse for missing the dance. "I don't wanna to know any of your friends, _Drew_." She says his name like it's a swear word.

"But they're really nice." He gives her his biggest, brownest eyes, the ones Mother always said would melt butter. "Please?"

She grunts at him - is that what he sounds like when he's frustrated? - and stalks off down the hall, leaving only the smell of her perfume behind. It's worse than the sour milk.

He swallows hard. Okay, she's not the only girl on campus - just the twenty-third to turn him down. Is he _that _dorky? Are the glasses that big? Is it the voice? He knows he brushed his teeth today - and put on deodorant- so it's not like he's gross or anything.

Just in case, he ducks into the men's restroom and bares his teeth at himself. Okay - no Frosted Flakes caught in his teeth. No pimples growing on his forehead. The hair gel's actually holding, by some miracle. Even the tiny little long part in back looks neater than usual.

"Trying to make up for everywhere else?" That's what one kid said in gym class - well, actually in the showers after gym class. It was back in high school, when all the other boys suddenly started looking like they were half monkey, and the most hair he could claim was between his eyebrows -

Which have since grown together. Phooey. He turns on the faucet, gets his hands wet, and smooths that one big thing out. There. Much more distinguished.

He pauses for a second and then rolls his sleeves and his pant legs down as far as he can, covering those scrawny, hairless limbs. He's not even sure why he owns a razor; he hardly ever gets to _use _it.

Okay. Now he looks a little more grown-up.

Strolling out of the bathroom, he sees - oh, gosh. It's Phoebe. Phoebe Tanner. Prettiest girl in school, bar none. (Whatever that even means.)

"Hi," he says. His voice stays down deep.

She looks at him and blinks her big eyes. His heart feels like it somehow managed to turn itself inside out. "Hey," she says.

She spoke to him. Phoebe Tanner actually spoke to Drew Lipsky. His forehead breaks out in a sweat, like maybe he's going to faint.

"Um - " His hands ache to shove up his glasses, but he knows how dweeby that'll make him look. "You know that big dance next weekend?"

She almost smiles. Or maybe it's a grimace. "Yeah?"

_Talk, Drew. Don't watch her hair move. Just talk._ He clears his throat and blurts out, "I was wondering - if you wanted to go with - me - or one of my friends - or -"

Phoebe cuts him off with one wave of her hand. "Excuse me. What's your name again?"

"Drew." He puffs out his chest as far as he can, hoping to fool her into thinking he actually has muscles. "Drew Lipsky."

Phoebe _definitely _smiles then. Actually, she laughs right out loud, really loud, like his name is the funniest thing she's ever heard.

Why do his legs feel so cold?

__

Oh, please, God - no. . .

He glances down, eyes already bunched up so far he can hardly see. Sure enough, the dress slacks he picked out so carefully just for this have fallen down and puddled around his ankles. And the spindly little legs, he knows, are nothing compared to the Spider-Man boxers.

So he does what any not-quite-man would do in this situation. He screams at the top of his lungs, grabs two fistfuls of fabric and yanks them back up, running the whole time. He bursts through about twenty-five doors and somehow winds up off campus, still fastening his pants with shaky hands. He doesn't stop until he's on a bench in front of the public library, surrounded by trees. No one can see him, and his legs won't hold him up anymore.

"Hey - are you okay?"

That voice belongs to a female, and he never wants to see another female again. _Ever_. Not even his mother.

"Are you sick?" the girl's voice keeps going. "Need me to call somebody?"

He wipes his nose on his sleeve and looks up into concerned blue eyes. Oh. He knows this girl. She doesn't go to his college, but she lives around here. He's seen her a few times before at the library, looking at medical books. Ann something-or-other.

Sure enough, her eyes flicker, like she recognizes him. "Drew," she says, sitting down on the bench next to him. "What's wrong?"

Ann's not the type to make fun of people, and her voice really does sound worried. "It's stupid," he mumbles.

She tilts her head. "What is?" she asks.

He presses his lips together to stop them from trembling. "I can't tell you. I'll cry, and you'll laugh."

"Try me." Ann's lips twitch, and she takes his hands. Her hands are almost bigger. "I promise I won't laugh at you."

So he tells her, and she listens, eyes getting softer and droopier and sadder with every detail. It's like she's the one nice person left on the whole planet, and it makes him want to hug her.

That gives him an idea. Ann doesn't make his heart do flips like Phoebe or - what was her name back in high school? - Tammy? - the girl who gave him his first kiss. But she's still pretty. And she _is _a girl.

"Could you - could you be my date?" he gets out, voice cracking again. "I mean, we don't have to actually do any, you know, date things - I won't kiss you or anything if you don't want me to, I promise! But could you just come with me, as my friend?"

Ann sighs and pulls away from him. "Oh, Drew, I'm sorry," she says.

He bites his lip and stares at the grass. Nice grass. Pretty grass. Needs mowing, but it's very good grass.

His tear ducts are tingling.

"I'd love to, don't get me wrong," Ann continues, flipping her hair back over one shoulder. "But we've got a big test that weekend, and I can't miss it. It counts for half my grade."

The universe hates him.

"Okay," he chokes out. "Have fun with your test." _While I die. _

Ann stands up and reaches her hand down to his. "I really am sorry," she says, helping him stand up. His legs still feel weird and soggy, like the Frostless Frosted Flakes in his cereal bowl. Maybe if he lets that sit for a week and brings it into chemistry class, he'll get extra credit. "I hope you find dates for your friends - and one for you."

He punches his hands into the pockets of his pants and prays they won't fall again. "Th-thanks," he whispers to his shoes.

She turns to walk away, but a horrible thought suddenly pops into his head and out his mouth, without stopping long enough in his brain for him to think about it. "Wait!" he cries.

Ann re-turns. "What?"

He wipes his sweaty palms on the seat of his dress slacks, which are all wrinkled and mussed by now. "Don't tell anyone what I told you, okay? The stuff about my pants?" His voice goes up another octave, but he doesn't even care. He can't possibly be more embarrassed than he already is.

Ann shakes her head softly. "I won't, Drew. I promise."

He has to leave before he cries. Crying is bad enough, but crying in front of a _girl _is twenty-five times worse. Maybe thirty.

By the time he gets back to the dorm, he's more mad than sad. Why can't he just be accepted and respected and all those other things without having to bring back dates? Just because he's younger and smaller and a little bit - different from them doesn't mean he's less of a person. Or less of a genius.

The anger doubles - triples - quadruples- when he sees the note taped to the refrigerator in the empty dorm. _We went down to the lab, Drew. Throw a couple of TV dinners in the microwave, would you?_

Sure. Fine. Now he's their _slave_.

He snatches three TV dinners out of the fridge - he's not hungry, and that's saying something - and throws them in the microwave as hard as he can. Secretly, he hopes he burns them. How would they feel if he turned the tables on _them_, laughed at _them_, made _them _serve _him_?

He gives the refrigerator a kick for good measure - and hurts his foot, ow - and is about to turn around and stomp off to his bed when a pamphlet floats down from on top of the fridge. He must have put it up there a few days ago and forgot about it.

"How To Build a Robot," the cover reads.

And that's when he knows the way out.

NOTEY NOTE NOTES:

*I tried not to portray Kim's dad and co. as jerks here, because they certainly aren't as adults and I don't think they ever intended to be mean to Drew in college. I figure that they were just being clueless kids, not realizing that Drew was a little more sensitive than they were. As for Drew himself - it's hard for him to tell friendly teasing from we-hate-your-guts teasing after being bullied for so long. He's not "evil" here, but he's certainly starting to come unhinged. . . and the rest is history.

*Kim's mother seems to remember Drew at the end of "Attack of the Killer Bebes," and it doesn't appear to be from listening to her husband's stories, so I had them be friendly acquaintances.


	31. Rejection

**Rejection**

So _that's _why they call it a crush.

He feels like a truck just ran over him and smashed him right into the ground, so flat and squashed and squooshed and squished he'll never be able to get up, never in a million years. His brain's neurons are firing like crazy, screaming at his legs to run away, his mouth to yell, his hands to flail and punch and hit. But something must be wrong with his bodily communication system thingy, because he can't do any of that. All he can do is squat down on his knees and dig his fingers into the. . . the. . . giant French fries? Why on earth is he surrounded by giant French fries?

Maybe it's all a bad dream. He squeezes his eyes shut. _Please let this all be a bad dream,_ he begs, though he's not even sure who he's talking to.

Giant French fries or not, he clings to them, because his fingers are aching to curl around something. His eyes are burning, and he knows he's going to start crying soon, and he doesn't want to cry in front of DNAmy.

_I did radical genetic surgery on his hands and feet._ She turned him down for Monkey Fist. MONKEY FIST. Stupid old Monkey Fist with his stupid old hairy hands and feet and his stupid old evil laugh that sounds like a monkey screech.

He doesn't understand. DNAmy's a _scientist_, like him. Monkey Fist says machinery is for the small-minded, that pounding your foes to smithereens is better. Like he even knows the first thing about machinery. Like he could even begin to comprehend the Doomsday devices his brilliant brain comes up with on a regular basis. (Okay, a _semi_-regular basis.)

What's a smithereen, anyway?

Maybe this is the flu. Maybe it's been the flu all along. His stomach's still doing circles, and his face still feels way, way too hot, but it feels worse somehow. A lot worse. Maybe he's dying.

He forces a snort and sinks his teeth into his lower lip so hard it actually hurts. Yeah. Maybe he'll just drop dead, right here and right now, from a broken heart, and then DNAmy'll be sorry. She'll come to his funeral and cry and say, "If only I had accepted his proposal. If only I hadn't let myself fall for Monkey Fist's. . ."

Hmm. What is there about Monkey Fist for anyone to fall in love with?

What's there about _him _for anyone to fall in love with?

"You okay, sweetie?" That's DNAmy's voice. . . her sweet, chipper voice. The one that just told him they couldn't get married, even though she was nicer to him than anyone else except his own mother. Even though she baked the most amazing cookies his taste buds had ever tasted. Even though she called him "Honey-Bunny" and tweaked his nose and made him feel like what he'd always imagined conquering the world would feel like.

Even though she made him not even _care _whether he conquered it or not.

_Of course I'm not okay._ The words are there, in his brain, but he doesn't know how to say them. He forgot how to talk. _I just poured out my soul to you - asked you to marry me - and you said NO because you're in love with MONKEY FIST!_

Okay, okay. Open your mouth and move it in the shape of the letter whose sound you want to make, do something with your tongue - that's how to talk. It's okay. It's all right.

He takes a deep breath and prepares to give her the tongue-lashing of her life, to yell at her and tell her what a horrible person she is to be so nice to a guy and then turn down his marriage proposal. But the second he opens his mouth, he bursts into tears and everything turns fuzzy.

Through the blur, he hears another voice. "Dr. D?"

Shego. He's never been so glad to hear her. "I'm over here!" he calls. _Save me! _he wants to add, but he can't. His brain is broken, his heart is broken, everything's broken into thousands of little Drakken-pieces that no one will ever be able to put back together again.

And he can't stop crying. This isn't even the nice, quiet kind of crying, the kind that everyone does on TV and makes everyone else feel sorry for them. This is the kind that makes your nose run and your mouth make weird little squeaky noises, the kind that isn't dignified or villainous or anything he wants to be.

It's disgusting, he thinks, swiping his sleeve across his nose. It comes back gloppy. _He's _disgusting.

One of the French fries is flung away, and Shego's green-gloved hand reaches inside. "I'm not even gonna ask. . ." Her voice trails off, and her eyes get big. "Whoa," she whispers under her breath. "What happened to you?"

He crumbles in the middle and hisses. He thought he wanted Shego to save him, but he can't look her in the eye. He'll never be able to look any of his villainous cohorts in the eye ever again. Especially not Monkey Fist. "Get me out of here!" he screams as loudly as he can. The pain in his ears distracts him from the pain in his chest.

"All righty then." Shego glowifies hers hands and does her thing, slicing the rest of the French fries to smithereens until there's a hole big enough for him and DNAmy to get out. He crawls out on his hands and knees, eyes fixed on the ground. Blacktop - actually more like _gray_top. Needs a fresh coat of paint. Some grass crawling up through the cracks. A few flowers.

Flowers. He closes his eyes, imagines himself presenting DNAmy with a bouquet of flowers. Tulips? Maybe hydrangeas, the kind Shego likes? No, roses. Red roses represent true love, Mother used to say.

She would have squealed, DNAmy would have. She's the squealing type. It hurt his eardrums at first, but he grew to love it. He can't imagine never hearing that squeal again.

Why can't he just stop crying?

He must look almost as bad as he feels, because Shego actually grabs his hand in hers and hauls him to his feet. "Okay - what happened, Doc? Is this because Kimmie foiled your 'genius' plan again?"

She says "genius" sarcastically, but he doesn't care. He doesn't even care that Kim Possible defeated him yet again. All he cares about is making all the hurt inside go away.

He's vaguely aware of climbing into the hovercraft, fastening his seat belt like he's on autopilot. "I hate girls!" he spits out. That's it. Get angry. Villains don't _get _sad, they get angry.

"Oh." Shego's lips twitch. "I guess I'll just be going then." She turns to walk away from the hovercraft, and he freezes. She can't go - he needs her! Especially right now.

"No-_wah_!" he protests loudly. "You don't count!"

Luckily, that makes Shego turn back around and get into the driver's seat. He doesn't even care that she gets to drive. It's hard to see with his eyes all blurry. He's sure his contacts are going to get washed away any second now.

"I suppose I'll take that as a compliment," she says dryly. "So - what's so awful about the _rest _of the female population?"

__

"I like sugar-booger, too."

_Her little hand, even littler than his, coming up to tickle his nose. _

The cheek-pinching.

The cookies.

The giggles that made his knees all weak.

The smile. The twinkle in her eye. The genetics knowledge. The way she rested her head on his shoulder.

The way she looked at him like he was a person and not a slug.

"I'm so sorry. The truth is, my heart belongs to another man."

A MONKEY!

"Everything!" he yells. "Just - everything!"

"Everything!" he yells. "Just - everything!"

Shego swings around in her seat to study him and raises one eyebrow. "I must have missed something here. Mind filling me on what happened after your _biiiiiiiiig beastie _helped us rehearse our emergency bailout system?" She starts to smirk, and that makes everything a million times worse. "Which you, by the way, failed."

It's not _his _fault he forgot how to jump. Panic does that to him. Besides, what if he jumped at the wrong moment and he fell too far and wound up breaking his nose or spraining his wrist or stubbing his baby toe or landing on DNAmy and hurting her -

"The dragon almost ate me," he says, trying to make his voice steady, trying to make it boom evilly the way it used to. He's not sure it ever will again. "DNAmy showed up and chased it away and saved my life."

"Oooh." Shego flutters her eyelashes. "Amy Hall, lifesaver. Who'da thunk it?"

He presses his lips together. "Let me _finish_, Shego." He hears his voice squawk, and he knows he needs to hurry up and finish before the tears catch up with him again. "Anyway, she saved my life, and I proposed to her, but she -"

"WHAT?" The hovercraft jolts fifty-six degrees to the right and almost leaves him behind.

He grabs onto the side and makes sure all of his body parts are still where they're supposed to be. "Shego, don't _do _that!" he cries.

Shego ignores him, as usual. Her eyebrows are nearly touching her bangs. "Please tell me you did _not _just say what I thought you just said."

Ugh. He doesn't even know what that sentence means. Too many of the same words repeated over and over again. . . hurts his brain. Hurts his chest. "What do you think I just said?"

Uh-oh. Shego's eyes are doing that thing where they bore right into you and come out the other side. Not literally - that would be really gross - but it sure feels like it. "That you -" the eyes dig harder - "proposed to DNAmy, of all people, after knowing her for a day."

Is that. . . unnormal somehow? He wouldn't know. "Yes," he snaps. "That's what I said!"

"Annnnnnnnnd lemme guess." Shego flicks an eyebrow. "She said no."

That's all it takes to get his stupid tear ducts going again. She doesn't even sound like she feels sorry for him. She sounds annoyed. What reason does _she _have to be annoyed? _She _wasn't the one who just got turned down by the love of her life!

"She said no," he repeats, and it hurts to even say the words. "Because she likes - another - man." It's getting harder and harder to control the crying, and he just wants to go home and soak his pillow, where no one can see him.

Shego's eyes gleam now. "What other man?"

A sour taste fills his mouth, like maybe he's going to urp. "I don't wanna talk about it," he mumbles into the hovercraft's dashboard.

"Oh, come on, Doc!" She smacks the dashboard two inches from his face, and he jumps. Darn reflexes. "This is just getting interesting."

"Monkey Fist," he mumbles to his toes.

"Come again?" Shego cups her hand around her ear.

"I said she's in love with MONKEY FIST!" he hollers. There. He said it. It hurts so bad he's sure he's going to die, but he said it. Fine. Whatever. Let her blab to the whole entire villain community, he can't possibly feel any worse . . .

Oh, but he can. Shego proves him wrong by throwing back her head and laughing.

Right there, he hates her. He's sitting here blubbering with tears trickling into his ears, and she's _laughing_. Like this is _funny_. "She's in love with Monkey Fist?" she repeats, like she can't believe it.

"I don't know whyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!" That last word gets away from him, and it's even hard to _breathe _now. This has to be what dying feels like.

Shego must notice he's crying now, because her eyes soften the tiniest little smithereen. "I'm sorry, Dr. D," she chuckles. "But it's just like the world's weirdest country western song."

To his horror, she takes her hands off the steering gears briefly to strum an imaginary guitar, which he's never seen anyone except Eddy do. "I got myself turned down by a bio-geneticist because she's in love with a mon-nkey!" she sings in a country-singer accent. . . whatever it's called. The kind that gives your words a bunch of extra syllables.

That does it. The anger and the sadness and the just plain _hurt_ push at his chest until he has to yell, so loud he hurts his own throat, "SHEGO! SHUT UP!"

Ooooooohhhhh. As soon as he says it, he flinches and waits to die. Nobody tells Shego to shut up and lives to tell about it. Well, he's never actually seen Shego kill anyone, so he's not sure. But he can make an educated guess.

But Shego actually stops playing her pretend guitar (she doesn't do it nearly as good as Eddy does) and smirks at him again. It's almost a smile. "Okay, okay," she grunts. "Don't get your boxers in a bunch, Lover Boy."

For a horrible second he's sure he _will _urp, right over the side of the hovercraft. "Shego. . . please. Let's just go home," he mutters stiffly. His mouth's all rusty and hard to move from dried-up tears. "I'm really tired now."

Even _that _doesn't win him her sympathy. "Probably dehydrated from all that crying," is all she says.

In spite of everything, he feels himself smile with superiority. "Shows what _you _know, Shego," he retorts. "The water that you lose through crying comes from your tear ducts and doesn't dehydrate you."

"Really?" Shego leans forward, looking interested. Too interested. "Tell me more."

He dares to keep the smile. "You know, there are actually three types of tears - the normal kind, the reflex kind, and the crying kind. The difference is - wait a minute." Suddenly, he realizes what she's trying to do.

"Wait a minute, what?" Shego widens her eyes like she's so innocent and isn't doing what she's doing.

He points a finger at her and holds it there, accusingly. "You're trying to get me distracted from DNAmy by making me talk about science! _That's _why you're acting all interested! You _never _care what I have to sa-a-a-ay!"

"Snap," he hears Shego mutter. Everything else is lost when he puts his face in his hands and cries again. It's almost starting to scare him - he's doing it so hard his whole body is convulsing. He wants to stop, but he can't. It hurts to cry, and it hurts to stop.

__

"Do you like it?"

Go away, Amy's voice.

"Us misunderstood scientist types have to stick together." Giggle.

She'd be Amy Lipsky. Maybe she doesn't want to marry a guy with such a dumb last name.

She could keep her own! I'd let her keep her own!

"You're cute." Cheek pinch.

I'm dead. . .

A knock on the door jolts him out of his thoughts. . . or dreams. . . or hallucinations. "You okay in there, Doc?" Shego's voice calls.

"Go away, Shego!" he barks back. "I'm in the shower!"

Which is not a lie. He's in the shower, fully clothed, curled up in the corner crying. The water's not running, of course. He's wet enough already.

"Well, come out." He can practically _hear _her toe tapping. "I wanna make sure you're not going to flush yourself down the toilet or something before I leave for the day."

Hmmm. Not a bad idea. But he probably wouldn't fit, and then he'd have toilet water all over him. That's not what he needs right now.

With shaky hands, he opens the shower door and stumbles out on equally shaky legs. He's cried until everything on him and in him feels limp and weak, and he _still _can't stop. Surely he must have run out of tears by now. Surely this has to be over soon.

He opens the bathroom door and faces Shego. Her face is still as pointy as ever. "Get over her, already," she snorts. "It's not like you lost a whole lot."

He collapses onto the carpet and howls. He can't help it, because what she just said feels like all the times he accidentally touched his scar while it was still healing, back before it was a scar. "Shego," he wails into the floor. "Why can't you just be nice right now?"

"I'm providing stability," Shego replies smoothly. "If I started being all nicey-nice, you wouldn't have _any_thing you could depend on now, would you?"

Something about that logic is very flawed, but he doesn't know what. His brain's too foggy from sobbing to dissect it and figure it out.

And he _did _lose a lot. The softest, nicest hands he can remember on a girl that's not related to him. Warm, home-baked cookies and sweet little cooed words. A voice like an angel.

Genetics knowledge. Someone who understood him. Someone who treated him like a person. Someone who made him feel wanted. Pretty, too, in a round, soft way. Probably every bit as cuddly as one of the Cuddle Buddies she collected.

Shego's still watching him. Shego, who's about as cuddly as a Doomsday device. "Drakken, please," she sighs. "You're starting to scare me. Don't - don't do that anymore."

"She hates me!" he blubbers. "She hates me, and I hate her!"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa." Shego holds up her hands in the time-out sign. "How did we get to her hating you?"

"She doesn't want to marry me!" he shrieks. "So she must hate me!" After all, if she liked him, she'd want to marry him. But she doesn't want to marry him, so she must not like him, so she must hate him. That's just the way it is.

"What makes you think _that_?" Shego's mouth twists. "I mean, what did she do when you asked her, slap you across the face and say, 'No way, loser, I hate your guts'?"

Somehow, that doesn't make him feel much better. "No. She patted my cheek -" _her hands are so soft _- "and told me I was sweet - " _no one but my mother's ever said that _- "and that she hoped we could still be friends." He flings out his hands in despair. "She hates me!"

"Urgh. No." Shego flops down right next to him and actually puts a hand on his back. "If she hated you, she would not have told you she wanted to be friends, now, would she?"

He pauses to consider that. Sounds about right, but girls are so _complicated_. "I guess not."

"And she wouldn't have said you were sweet." Shego nods like she just solved everything. "The girl doesn't hate you, 'kay?"

"Then - then - then -" He chokes on the words. "Why doesn't she want to marry me?"

"Uh, let's see." Shego taps her chin in pretend thought. "Maybe because she's only known you for a day and a half?"

"But - but - but - but - but - but -" The words are gone. The right words are all gone. Everything's gone. Bye-bye, everything. "But she was _nice _to me!"

"That's no reason to propose." Shego rolls her eyes like she knows everything, which she doesn't. Not even close. (He can't think of anything she _doesn't _know right now, but he's sure something will come to him.) "What do you think would happen if I proposed to every guy who was ever nice to me?"

Whoa. He never thought of that before. "You'd have, like, sixty husbands," he estimates.

"Yeah," Shego agrees. "And one of them would be _you_."

She points at him, and he blinks. "Ew."

"Exactly." Shego gets up and dusts off her hands. "That's where dating and stuff comes in, so you can actually get to know them before you run off to Vegas with them."

He wasn't going to run off to Vegas with DNAmy. "Oh," is all he can croak.

Shego nudges him with her foot, like he's something dead she doesn't want to touch with her hands. "Wash your face and go to bed, Leaky Eyes. I'll be back in the morning."

The nudge stirs up a feeling in him, one he's had since DNAmy turned him down, one he's been trying to ignore. But it's impossible now. "Shego. . . am I gross?" he blurts out.

She doesn't even blink. "Yes."

Sag. Pain. Lots of blinks. "Really?" It's hard to talk. His throat feels raw and scratchy.

"Sure." Shego shrugs. "I mean, look at you. You wipe your nose on your sleeve. You clean out your ears with your fingers and wipe it on your pants."

His cheeks go pink. He never thought she _saw _that - he always tried to be so inconspicious about it.

She's ticking his grossnesses off on her fingers now. "You spill things. You burp and don't excuse yourself. You chew with your mouth open and eat until you ralph. _Of course _you're gross."

A different kind of sag, the relieved kind. "No, She_go_," he spits out. Relieved or not, he's still annoyed that she didn't understand. She _never _understands. "I mean - I mean - I mean - " He's not sure he can explain what he means, and that scares him. He'll wind up looking stupid again, and he can't take that.

He gets up, slowly, painfully, and walks over to the mirror. Eyes still furry-feeling, he studies his scar. His unibrow. His ponytail. His _blueness_. "The way I look - is it gross?"

Shego puts her face in her hands and groans right out loud. Oh, no. It's worse than he thought. She can't even stand to look at him. "No," she whispers. "No, no, no, no, no, this is so messed up."

All he can do is stare. "What is?"

Shego takes her hands down from her face and puts them on her hips. "Look, I'm the girl. I'm the one who's supposed to ask the unanswerable questions."

"You mean like, 'Which came first, the chicken or the egg?'" What does that have to do with his looks?

"No." She shakes all her hair back over one shoulder. "I mean like, 'Am I beautiful enough?' or 'Does this dress make me look fat?' And the guy's supposed to be the one put on the spot."

He wonders if DNAmy would have ever asked him those kinds of things. He crumbles again.

"Drakken, look at me." Shego grabs two fistfuls of his lab coat and yanks him close to her face, so he can't _help _but look at her. "No."

He feels his eyebrow fold. "No, what?"

"No, you don't look gross, okay?" Shego flings her hands in the air. "At least not compared to Monkey Fist. I mean, the guy has _fur _on his _feet_." She shudders. "Now that - that is gross."

He manages to force a small smile, and the man in the mirror smiles back at him. There. Now he doesn't look _so _bad. "Thanks," he whispers.

"Yeah, yeah." Shego's already halfway to the front door. "Wash your face. Brush your teeth. I'll see you tomorrow."

He nods and snuffles, closing the bathroom door, thinking maybe - just _maybe _- broken hearts aren't fatal after all. Maybe he can survive this if he never thinks about DNAmy again -

Except he just did. He swallows hard. That isn't going to be as easy as it sounds, especially considering the thought of her name still makes his stomach do flips and his hands shake so bad he drops his toothbrush.

Another thought hits him, and he yanks open the bathroom door. "Shego, wait!" he yells, hoping she hasn't left yet. "Is it my breath? I thought I heard somewhere that I had bad breath!"

Even from all the way across the lair, he can hear his sidekick sigh. "Your breath's fine, Dr. D. Go to bed." Her voice is as calm and sarcastic as ever. It's almost comforting.

What's _not _is when the door clicks shut and locks. She's gone - just for the night, he knows deep down, but it feels like yet another person doesn't want him.

His dad. Click, lock, gone.

His "friends" back in college. Click, lock, gone.

Some of his fellow villains at HenchCo's conventions. Jack Hench himself. Countless people at conventions for scientists, telling him he's not smart enough. Click, lock, gone.

And now DNAmy, who he thought was making it all better. Click.

Lock.

Gone.

He forgets to wash his face or brush his teeth. He drops everything, absolutely everything, and runs back to his room. Even though he knows it's not professional or villainous or anything else he's trying to be, he buries his face in his pillow and cries himself to sleep.

A NOTE: Anyone who's ever read Disney's lovely novelizations and non-canon activity books promoting the show (or watched the DVD extras or been to the old website, etc.) knows what I'm making fun of with the "Do I have bad breath?" line. ;)


	32. Do Not Disturb

**Do Not Disturb**

There are some things you just _know_. Some things that just come naturally, as naturally as breathing and blinking and digesting.

For Shego, it's nail files and magazines and fighting and sarcasm. For Kim Possible, it's foiling perfectly good maniacal plots and frustrating evil geniuses in the process. For the buffoon, it's. . . um. . . pants loss, he guesses.

For him, though, it's science. The chemical experiments, the mixtures, the droppers and microscopes, the feel of his goggles over his eyes. When he's like this, he doesn't feel like he was dropped out of the sky and landed on the wrong planet by mistake. He doesn't feel like a klutzy guy who forgets all the right words and can only sputter in agony as everyone else banters around him.

Right now, with the lab all big and pink around him and his "DO NOT DISTURB" sign hanging on the door, he feels like a mad scientist. Who's going to conquer the world.

He sighs in contentment - everything's as it should be - and reaches for the plasmodium. He's just had his brilliantest idea ever, and there's no way it can fail. No way, no how. If only he remembers how to make that mind-control chemical, the one no one can smell or taste, the one that he discovered all those years ago, back before Shego even started working for him. . .

A knock on the door nearly sends him through the ceiling. He's almost forgotten where he was - and that anyone was in the lair with him. "What?" he hollers at the top of his lungs.

Shego's voice drifts in. She must have heard him thinking about her. She has ears like a. . . a. . . he doesn't know. Something with really good ears. "Hey, Dr. D. What's a distrub?"

He scowls, feeling his lower lip fold over his chin. "What are you _talking _about?" he yells back. His brain contains no file entries for "distrub," and he doesn't have _time _for this kind of nonsense. He has a world to take over!

Shego goes ahead and opens the door without permission. He makes a mental note to dock her salary. "Yeah, the sign on your door - it says DO NOT DISTRUB." She tilts her head at him, eyes gleaming that _I'm-making-fun-of-Drakken_ gleam, and his stomach knots. "So - what's a distrub?"

The redness that usually rises to his cheeks takes a detour to his ears, instead. Fascinating. He wonders why.

But he doesn't have time to ponder his blood's routes right now. He runs over to the door and yanks his sign off the doorknob. It _does _say "distrub." The letters turned themselves around in his brain again. Ah, peanut brittle."Curses!" he blurts out.

Shego's eyebrows go up, but she doesn't look the least bit impressed. "Curses?" she repeats in disbelief. "Does anybody still _say _that?"

The anger tangles up in his chest and makes the right words leave. He opens his mouth, waiting for them to come back, but they don't, and he's vaguely aware of someone making noises like they just got their tongue stuck in a tape dispenser. That hurts.

"Mehhneh!" he finally cries. "They said it in the movie I watched last night!"

Shego props her hands on her hips. "Which was made in, what, 1955?"

No, no, no. He squeezes his eyes shut as tight as he can, barely pausing to inspect the little specks of light dancing around in front of his eyelids. He can't let her get the upper hand. Can't let her make him look stupid. . .

But what comes out is, "I don't know. They had Roman Numerals at the end, not normal numbers."

"So there you go." Shego smirks at him. "Only movies that are practically ancient use Roman Numerals."

He glares at her, big and pink through his goggles. "Don't get lippy, Shego," he retorts.

It doesn't phase her. "So - 'distrub' was supposed to be 'disturb,' I'm guessing?"

He crosses his legs under the lab table and presses his lips together, trying to hold back the frustration. He hates that feeling, all tangly and horrible and heavy inside him. "Yes," he finally manages to squeeze out through his teeth. "It was."

Shego's lips twitch at the corners, which means she currently thinks he's hilarious. It's less painful than her angry moods - it means he's not going to be thrown into the wall anytime soon - but, oh, man, how it feels like a kick in the ego.

_Hmmm._ He considers that for a minute. Catchy. If for some bizarre reason he ever writes a song, he should put that in there.

"You dyslexic or something?" His sidekick leans in, her mouth still doing its thing.

He blinks at her. He really wants to get back to creating his brainwashing shampoo, and this is really not the time for questions about his ethnicity. "No!" he snaps. "I'm not really sure what I am," he adds. "People are always telling me my name sounds Polish - I mean, my - my - my _other _name." He can't bring himself to say "real name," and he certainly doesn't want to say the name he was born with out loud. Well, he wasn't born _with _it, his mother named him that like five minutes afterward.

That's strange. For five minutes of his life, he was just Baby Boy Lipsky. If he had been a Baby Girl Lipsky, Mother says he would have been named Carly. That's even stranger.

Shego chuckles wryly. "No, no, no, Doc. It's not a nationality or anything like that - it's more like a -"

The panic in his brain cuts her off. "Disease?" he wails, before remembering he doesn't have any diseases that he knows of.

So he narrows his eyes at her, sets his jaw and hopes he looks menacing. "I don't have any diseases, thank you very much. At my last checkup, the doctor gave me a clean bill of health. He didn't ask if I was dyslexic. Of course -" he squirms a little - "I think I got asked if I was anemiconce." He doesn't even know what that _is_.

Shego quirks an eyebrow to match the corners of her mouth. "Well, are your fingernails blue?"

He's got his right glove halfway off to check before he remembers.

"Ha-ha-ha, Shego." He folds his arms over his chest and scowls at her. "Very funny. Doctors are always thinking I can't breathe, and it's kind of. . ." he bumps around in his brain for the right word and picks one. ". . .awkward."

"I know, I know." Shego leans against his lab table, eyes the slightest bit softer. "They always think I'm nauseous."

"If doctors think you're nauseous, they bring you ginger ale," he says. "If they think you can't breathe, they start trying to stick tubes in you." He shudders at the memories.

Shego shrugs. "Touche."

Great. Now she's speaking Spanish or Dyslexian or something. His eyes land back on the test tubes on his desk, and he remembers what he was trying to do, and his neck prickles go up. "Okay, this has been a fascinating conversation, Shego. Now - _go_." He points at the door for visual demonstration.

"All right, all right, keep your lab coat on." Shego lifts her lip like she smells something bad. "_Please_."

Huh?

Turns out, she must smell something bad, because she suddenly reaches up and pinches her nose between two fingers. "What _is _that smell?"

He twists around and studies the plasmodium on his desk. There is a slight - okay, kind of strong - odor coming from it. And all the other open chemicals next to it. A grin cuts across his face as he pictures his brainwashing shampoo being bought by unsuspecting citizens all over the globe. "That, Shego, is the smell of success!" he booms.

Oooh, that sounded _good_. He mentally congratulates himself.

Shego waves the air in front of her face. "Well, 'success' smells like a perfume factory just exploded," she complains.

"Good." He points at the door again. "Then _go_."

She makes a face at him and scoots out the door. He sighs with relief and flops back into his chair, ready to settle back into being a mad scientist, to being in control, to not having to deal with mouthy sidekicks and brains that scramble letters on you -

__

Knock-knock-knock.

Who invented the knock, anyway? He's going to have to hurt them. "_What is it_?" he screeches.

"Uh, boss?" It's one of his henchmen. "How do you spell 'hippopotamus'?"

Peanut brittle curses. On the one hand, it feels good that someone trusts him to know how to spell something. On the other hand, the constant interruptions are _annoying_! "H-I-P-P-O," he begins - he knows that part for sure. "P-O-T-O-T-A-T-A-M-U-S-S." He crosses his fingers and hopes that's right.

"Okay," the henchman replies. "Thanks, boss."

"You're welcome," he growls. "Now LEAVE - ME - ALONE!" With that, he shakes his fist at the door, forgetting the henchman can't see. And that the plasmodium was in that hand.

It goes flying through the air and hits the ground, the container shattering. "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" someone screams, sounding like their voice got broken off in the middle.

Only when Shego appears in the doorway, eyebrows going into her hair, eyes full of _Drakken-what-in-the-world-are-you-_doing?, does he realize it's him. "What in the - ohhhh, man!" She slaps both hands over her face, and he doesn't blame her. A smell like a thousand skunks that just got run over is seeping through the room.

"Shego," he mutters into his own hand. A wave of dizziness takes him and shakes him. "I - the thing - it broke - and I - and I - I - I -"

He feels himself slumping, and Shego grabs him by the shoulder. "Whoa, there, Doc," she says, voice sounding too loud and too quiet at the same time. "What was that stuff?"

"Plasmodium," he mumbles through rubber lips. No, really, they feel thick and hard to move. "It helps with the mind control."

"Lemme guess." Shego's face is nothing but a blurry blur by now. "You can't clean it up without a biohazard suit, right?"

"Someting like tat." Why doesn't she just go away and let him sleep? "Shego, the shign shays, 'Do Not Dishurb." His tongue won't move over his lips and his teeth the right way, and _now _he remembers why plasmodium helps in mind control. Makes the victim sleepy. Sort of loopy. Like the stuff they give you when they wanna operate on you and they want you to go to sleep and dream of pink ponies and fire-breathing candy canes. . .

"It says 'distrub,' and you better be grateful I came in." Shego's voice is sharp, and he doesn't want to argue with her right now. "I probably just saved your life or something."

"That's a exagg-era-a-tion, shilly." For some reason, it takes a lot to get that word out - whichever word he just said, the one with all the syllables. "It'ssh not deadlily."

They stop moving - have they been moving all this time? - and Shego takes her hand off his arm - has it been there all this time? Even his eyelashes feel dizzy. "Okay, Drakken," she chirps, using her fake-cheerful voice. "This is a couch. You can lie down on it."

"Fery vunny." He lowers himself down onto the so-called couch and his back creaks a little in protest. "Ow."

Even through the blur, he can hear the giggle in Shego's voice. She doesn't giggle that match - much, he corrects himself. "Man, you should see yourself right now."

If he looks half as bad as he feels, he's not sure he wants to. "Why? What do I look like?" Silently, he hopes he doesn't have any more scars. . . or green patches on his cheeks or anything. Maybe he singed all his hair off again.

"Okay, okay." Shego certainly sounds like she's enjoying this. "You look like you have the world's worst case of hay fever, and you stuck your head straight into a flower."

Ouch. That's a very vivid image. "Tank you verry mooch," he mumbles.

"No prob." Why is it the one time _he _uses sarcasm, _she _doesn't notice? That's very, very, very unfair. "And you sound like you just consumed the contents of a brewery."

He doesn't know what a brewery is, and his mouth is too mushy to ask. So he just rolls over and buries his face in the couch cousins - cushions. It's not like this hasn't happened before. Call it an - an occupational hazard. Still has a rash on one leg from the last time he spilled chaopaodainal all down it. Man, that hurt.

"I take it now isn't the best time to ask about my raise?" Shego asks from somewhere above him.

He glares at her through swollen eyes. "Sut up, Sego," he manages to get out, before he drops off into sleep.

Okay. Next day. Take two. He's got his goggles on, and a piece of string tied around his finger to remind him not to take them off under any circumstances. The plasmodium's been cleaned up - it was actually kind of fun to wear the biohazard suit again. A sign that says DO NOT DISTURB hangs from the doorknob - and he's made sure he spelled everything right. Checked the dictionary.

Now - he settles himself in at the computer desk and cracks his knuckles - Shego hates it when he does that - he's going to do some research into how to combine his mind-control chemical with the shampoo without diminishing its effects. And he is _not _going to be distracted. By _any_thing.

He moves his fingers over the keyboard and types in his search.

_Dyslexia - Noun._

_A learning disability in which the person finds it difficult to read and write. . ._


	33. Horror

DISCLAIMER: Please read the note at the end before siccing any attack dogs/rabid flamingos/giant cymbal gorillas on me.

**Horror**

So _this_ is why she's been acting so weird lately.

She smells like soap.

Her hair is tickling his nose.

She's probably getting lipstick on his mouth. He hopes no one can see them.

If she doesn't stop right now, he's going to throw up all over her and there's really nothing he can do about it.

She stops and pulls back, mouth half-open, smiling like she just ran face-first into a wall. Her eyes don't look like she's about to pass out, though. They're all sparkly and gleamy, in a way he's never seen them be before.

Well, at least _somebody's _happy. He flings himself against the back wall of the photo booth and plasters a hand up over his mouth to keep the horrible, icky feeling inside him under control.

"So," Shego reaches out and touches his nose again, and he jumps away as quickly as he can. Those same hands that have glowed and thrown green plasma at him so many times now want to crawl all over his face. It's like someone rewrote every single universal law when he wasn't looking.

He licks his lips, over and over and over, because he's afraid of what will happen if he stops. Will she lunge for them again? "So - what?" he manages to get out, barely recognizing his own voice. It's high and squawky, like a scared baby bird.

"So, how did you enjoy your first kiss, Dr. D?" The female life-form in front of him tilts her head to one side, giggling the whole time. This can't be Shego - has to be an imposter. Since when does Shego giggle?

And Shego wouldn't kiss him to save her life, or his, or anyone else's, for that matter. He says the only thing that pops into his head. "It wasn't my first kiss," he grumbles, glancing over at the food court.

Maybe he could say he needs to go the bathroom - and escape - and hide in a stall until Shego gets bored and goes home. Then he could - could - could - darn it, the thing he needs to take over the world - whose name he's forgotten by now - is still back at his lair - ohhhhhh, his lips feel disgusting, like they're sweating or something. He starts to edge toward the opening in the side of the photo booth, slowly and inconspicuously. . .

Darn it again. Shego flings herself in front of him, hands on her hips. He's forgotten how determined a woman in love is. Look at DNAmy chasing Monkey Fist. He refuses to let that sting anymore.

_In love_. That thought shudders down his backbone and nearly makes him stumble over his own feet. Shego, his employee, is in love with him, and that's not the way it's supposed to be. She's supposed to protect him, support him, run errands for him, show enthusiasm for his plans, like him as a friend and a boss and respect him as a villainous, evil, genius, take-over-the-world-person - but not _love _him. Not like _that_. Not _kiss _him and make his lips feel warm and sweaty and sick.

"Going somewhere, Drakky-Wakky?" Shego coos, reaching out a hand toward him again.

_Drakky-Wakky?_ His stomach turns completely inside out. He almost prefers "loser."

"I - I - I - I -" He can practically hear his jaw's hinges creaking as he tries to find some words that will make this - this _thing _that's infected Shego go away, make things go back to normal. Poor Shego obviously can't fix it on her own, but he doesn't know how to help her. _She's _the one who always helps _him_. "I - I need to go to the bathroom."

Shego starts giggling again. Why, he wonders, do some girls giggle when he tells them that? There's nothing funny about it - it's only _natural_. "You can't wait, sweetums?"

"No." He shakes his head so hard it hurts, backing away the whole time. He sure hopes there's not a bench behind him. "No, Shego, I can't. Please -" he swallows hard and frantically searches his brain for something that will let him escape into a place where girls aren't allowed - "I feel kind of sick." There. That's really not a lie.

"Ohhhhhhhh." Those green eyes, always so hard and stony, go soft and droop at the corners. "Run along then, but remember." Shego winks at him, and his mouth goes completely dry. "I'll be waiting."

Great. Fine. Wonderful. He jumps down out of the photo booth and _bolts_for the restroom, past the food court, past the tattoo parlor (curse that place), past the fountain he used to love as a tyke. He doesn't stop to make a wish, because his only wish is all knotted up into a big ball of fear in his brain, and he doesn't know how to untangle it. If only he knew what was wrong with Shego, he might be able to invent some kind of machine to zap her back to normal, but if he doesn't know the problem, he can't know the solution. . .

He knocks over some little old lady on his way to the safe haven of the men's bathroom, which is always kind of awkward for him. He's never sure whether he should apologize and help her to her feet, or stand there and laugh maniacally so everyone can see how evil he is. Right now, he doesn't do either one. He just keeps running, because his feet need to keep moving, to get him far, far away from this nightmare that he can't wake up from.

Maybe God loves him after all, because there's nobody else in the bathroom. With shaky hands, he grips the sides of the sink, leans over - all the way over - and waits.

And waits. And waits. And waits. For what feels like hours.

Okay. He finally dares to straighten up, against his back's protests. Evidently he's not going to throw up after all, or he would have done it by now.

Still, the straightening makes his head spin and his stomach churn, so he bends back over. A horrible thought occurs to him right about then, and he has to grab the sink extra hard to keep from falling straight into the mirror, which would probably give him a concussion on top of everything else. (Literally "on top of" it, though the pun doesn't seem funny right now.)

What if - what if whatever infected Shego's going to get him, too? What if it's transferable through saliva exchange? What if he's going to fall in love with her? Or what if she's a vampire? Vampires can turn regular people into vampires, too, by kissing them, he's heard. Or was that by biting them?

He pushes back again, raising his head just enough to examine himself in the mirror. Nope - he doesn't look like he's turning into a vampire. Matter of fact, he looks the same as always, just paler and scareder.

And, sure enough, there's black lipstick smeared on the corners of his mouth, put there when Shego's lips smashed up against his so hard at first he thought she was trying to suffocate him. Maybe it would have been better if she was.

He shudders again as he grabs a paper towel and manages to turn on the faucet to get it wet. Lips that can't have been around much longer than twenty years shouldn't be pressed up against anyone else's. Especially not ones that belong to an almost-old guy like him.

Taking the wet paper towel in his hand, which is hard because it's still shaking - his hand, not the towel - he mops his mouth with it, getting rid of the lipstick, making a black stain on the white papery stuff that paper towels are made of. Even once it's gone, he keeps wiping, harder and harder and harder, wanting to wipe away the shame and the nausea and the whole stupid thing.

What he told Shego was true - he's been kissed before - but he's never had a mouth-kiss. At least not one that hit or lasted for longer than half a second. Those are the special kind you don't give just anybody. And now he accidentally gave one to a girl half his age. He examines his lips in the mirror, to see if the flesh is rotting away. He feels like some kind of sicko or something.

_At least - at least she's being nice to me now._He tries to grab onto a positive thought, but it slips away, like his plans for world domination always do. Maybe he doesn't want her being nice to him, at least not in this way. He just wants Shego back, doesn't want to be hugged and kissed and batted at like a cat toy. How does he fix this?

How does he make it better?

He doesn't. Shego does. Shego always does. That makes him want to stick his entire head under the faucet.

So he does. The water's cold - he gasps; a lot colder than he expected - and fast and plasters his hair to his forehead, but it feels good. He closes his eyes and lets it rush down his face, cleaning him the way a shower does.

And while he cleans, he thinks. What is he supposed to do about Shego? Actually dating her is out of the question. She's pretty enough, he guesses, and kind of fun sometimes, and she always gets him out of trouble, which he likes, but - but - but -

It just doesn't seem right. Doesn't work. Shego doesn't make his heart flutter in his chest, the way DNAmy did. Well, sometimes she does, but only when she's threatening to throw green plasma at him. That's different. That's fear.

That means he needs to break out with her, or whatever the teens today say. Stop dating her before it even starts. He touches his lips, gingerly, in case they crumble. Maybe it already did start, but he didn't give it permission to, so it doesn't count.

But - hoo-boy - what is he supposed to say? He examines his reflection in the mirror and sticks out his tongue at himself, hating the guy whose mind is a complete blank. For such a genius, he sure is good at feeling stupid.

If he says the wrong thing, he'll break Shego's heart, and he doesn't want to do that. She's not acting much like Shego anymore, but she's still his friend. Maybe he should just fire her and avoid it.

No. He shakes his head at himself, watching his wet hair slap his face in the mirror. She'd see through it. Shego's a smart lady. Not scientific-genius-smart like him, but smart like if she got lost somewhere, she'd know what to do to get found, instead of just sitting down in the middle of the sidewalk and crying.

And if he breaks Shego's heart - she'll break his everything. Like his Doomsday devices and his giant TV-screen and his arms and his legs and his favorite neck. . .

__

"I'm so sorry. The truth is, my heart belongs to another man."

His heart jumps back into his throat - not literally, that's not physically possible - when he remembers DNAmy's voice. How he just wanted to curl up into a ball and die after she turned him down. He doesn't want Shego to have to feel that way. That hurts, and he doesn't want her to hurt.

_What am I supposed to say?_ For a brief, crazy instant, he considers calling his mother and begging her for advice.

That thought lasts about as long as a fire underwater. Nope, Mother wouldn't give him advice. She'd squeal and coo and tell him how adorable it was that some girl had a crush on him, and tell him to settle down and marry her already, because she wants grandbabies.

For the first time in a while, he wishes he knew where his dad was. Maybe he could call him and ask for help, man-to-man.

He snorts out loud at that thought, which was even more ridiculous than the last one. No, his dad's way of breaking up with a girl he doesn't like is to say he needs a few days apart and then take off and never show his face again and forget to pay child support. He doesn't want to do _that_. Even supervillains have their limits.

Besides, he doesn't feel like much of a man right now. Just a boy, lost and scared without his parents or his honorary sister.

Guess he has to break up - break _up_; that's it! - with Shego on his own, then. He swipes a hand across his hair, pushing the spikes back from his forehead, flattening them against the rest of his hair. There. Now he looks a little bit more mature.

"Shego - " he addresses himself in the mirror, then makes a face. This seems like a very girly thing to be doing - "We've known each other a long time, and I know you think dating may be the next step - "

He stops, because he has no idea where he's going to go with that. _But you're incredibly wrong and I'm scared out of my mind?_

Nope. Better try again. "Shego - it's not that I don't like you - "

"Shego - you're a good friend - but I don't want to - I can't -" Nope.

"Shego - I'm flattered that you think I'm dating material, but I -" Nope.

"Shego, I'm a mad scientist. I'm too busy for a relationship right now - " Nope.

"Shego - bleleheh." Nope. His tongue completely quit on him that time.

"Shego - don't take this personally, but I don't want to date you - " Nope.

"Shego - can we maybe take this slower? Kissing makes me very, very uncomfortable - "

"Shego - please go back to normal."

"Look, Shego, a flying elephant!"

Finally, he has to wrench his gaze away from the mirror and look at his feet. They don't have any answers, but it's easier to talk to them. A lot easier. "Shego - I like you. I care about you - a lot. But I - I - I - I don't feel the same way about you that you obviously feel about me -" His voice cracks, and he swallows hard.

"I hope you're not too disappointed. But dating you would be like dating my sister." Not that he has a sister. But Shego comes close.

"Maybe - maybe you could find another guy. A better guy for you. Younger, richer, taller, has two eyebrows - but don't date Eddy, please. He's kind of weird around girls."

He sighs and finally looks up, into the confused face of a very big guy. "Dude, who are you talking to?" the guy asks.

He scrambles to his feet, tripping in the process. "No one!" he snaps, willing his voice to boom in that way he likes. "Just - practicing my - my lines for a - a play." He flashes his biggest smile and tries to ignore the way his heart is thumping. "I'm a Broadway actor."

"Right." The guy arches an eyebrow and steps into a stall.

He glances at himself in the mirror right before he steps out of the bathroom, hair already starting to spring back into spikes. He's going to break up with a girl who's not even his girlfriend because she's young enough to be his daughter and he feels like her brother.

He groans and rubs his forehead. This relationship business makes world domination look easy.

NOTES:

*I have nothing against anyone who ships Drakken/Shego. I believe it is possible they became a couple after "Graduation." But this is honestly what I think would be going through Drakken's mind during "Emotion Sickness." Please don't eat me...

*The "my arm, my leg, my favorite neck," line is secretly borrowed from the _Darkwing Duck _episode "Toys Czar Us."


	34. Annoyance

**Annoyance**

__

_Operation Catastrofic Doom!_

There. He admires the sheet of paper, nodding happily to himself. Yes, that definitely sounds much better than "Operation A-Ha Yippee!" That was his first idea for a name, because it had been the first thing out of his mouth when the plot occurred to him.

He tilts his head, hair tickling his shoulders - it must be about time for a haircut - and studies the words he just wrote down. He's actually glad Shego's not in the lab right now, because she'd ruin his moment of triumph. Say something like, "How do you expect to take over the world if you can't even spell 'catastrophic'?" even though world domination and spelling are two entirely unrelated skills.

Most brilliant people can't spell, probably. At least most _scientifically _brilliant people.

Anyway.

He clutches the pencil between two fingers and lets his tongue creep out of the corner of his mouth so that he can focus all his attention on his genius plan. Just as he begins to draw a long, straight line, the start of the letter _P_, the lead snaps right off the top of his pencil and rolls off the table.

"Mnnehh," he mutters to himself, scraping his chair back from the table. He slides out and drops to his hands and knees, eyes scanning under the lab table for the lead. Where is the little rascal? How is he supposed to write without lead?

A-ha. _There _it is. He snatches it up with two fingers. "Thought you could hide from Dr. Drakken, huh?" he demands of the little splintery thing. "Well, think -"

He must have squeezed it a little too hard in his ferocious villain anger, because the lead snaps in two, and the broken pieces fall right into his palm.

" - again," he finishes kind of lamely.

Well, phooey. He plops back into his chair and lets his lower lip drag to his chin. How he is supposed to take over the world if he can't even write down his plan?

Oh, right. There are pens in his desk, aren't there?

He yanks open the drawer, and gaak! There are no less than twenty-five pens in there, all looking equally usable and preventing him from making an easy decision.

_Focus, Drakken._ He grabs the first pen his fingers find and slams the drawer shut before the rest of them can distract him with their shininess. _Focus. Concentrate._

Now - what was he supposed to be writing again? Something that starts with a _P_, that's all he remembers.

He flops his face down onto the desk and slaps the pen down near the top of the desk. It rolls, rolls, rolls, down the slope of the desk and hits his hand with a tiny thump.

It doesn't hurt, but he growls and bats it away anyway, back to the top of the desk. His hand needs space.

The pen rolls back down again, this time almost bumping his cheek, which is pressed against the wood, feeling its scratchiness. The stupid rebellious writing instrument is so close to his nose, he can feel his eyes getting wonkily out of focus.

Another flick. It rolls back.

He flicks it harder. It rolls back faster.

Fascinating. He could really be on to something here. Calculate the slope and return of a pen rolling down a desk, figure out a way to apply to a boulder down a mountain or something equally unpleasant, then use it to get rid of Kim Possible and go ahead with Phase One of Operation Catastrophic Doom -

That's it! He remembers! Grabbing the pen from halfway down its roll, he pulls off the cap and writes frantically, _Phase One. Fire a laser at the moon, at a precise trajectory of exactly forty-five degrees, which will allow it to -_

Clank-clank-clank, rattle. Clank-clank-clank, rattle.

__

- which will allow it to clank-clank-clank, rattle.

Hmmm. He rubs his chin in thought, forgetting too late he still has the pen in his hand. Something about what he just wrote makes no sense, even for a mad, mad scientist.

Clank-clank-clank, rattle. Clank-clank-clank, rattle.

Oh, it's that blasted heater again. Always makes those noises when it hasn't been used for a few months. He gets up out of his desk to turn it off, when a smell hits his nose and sends panic right up to his brain.

_Smoke_!

"Shego!" he hollers through the door, which he's kind of forgotten how to open in this moment of extreme fear. "Something's on fire!"

"It's the heater, Doc," Shego's voice comes back groggily.

"The heater's on fire!" he corrects himself.

"No, no, no." He can hear her sigh, which she does a lot of. "It just smells like that whenever you first use it, remember?"

Ohhhh, right. He grins sheepishly down at his boots. He forgot.

"Now," Shego stops to yawn, "if you don't have anything more constructive to do with your time, I'd like to go on with my nap."

He lets his grin turn sly. "You mean, if I don't have anything more _de_structive to do, right?" He adds an evil chortle, just for effect.

"Whatever." The tone of Shego's voice says this conversation is over. She didn't even acknowledge his cool play on words or his villainous laugh. His shoulders sag into each other, prickling all the way.

Well, one thing's for sure. The smell and the sound of the heater make it impossible to work in _here_.

He draws his knees up to his chest and wriggles his rear end around on the bathtub floor to get more comfortable. There. Now he can continue with his plan.

Ewww. One glove's soggy. The towel he accidentally grabbed on his way in must have still been wet from his bubble bath earlier this morning. He yanks it off and wipes it on his lab coat, which - great. That just makes _it _soggy, too.

He flings his glove to the ground in defeat and gives his blue rubber ducky an affectionate pat on the head. It's always nice to have someone the same color as you, especially if that color isn't natural.

__

Dilemma: Should I put one mirror right in the middle of the moon, or should I put one on one side and one on the other? On the one hand, if I drip-drip-drip-drip-drip-drip

"Oh, come ON!" he hollers, voice echoing off the bathroom walls and back into his ears a little louder than he would have liked. "Give me a BREAK!"

Shoulders going straight up to his ears in their prickly annoyance, he stands up, slips on his soggy glove, and topples head-over-heels out of the bathtub. He lands - hard - on his chin, and for a second, the world goes fuzzy and spotted.

When he said "break," he didn't mean his _neck_. And that stupid faucet is still dripping.

He gets to his feet and leans a little bit dizzily against the wall, dragging his fingernails down his face in sheer frustration. If this goes on much longer, he'll _never _be able to take over the world.

Still growling and grunting, he hauls himself over to the sink and yanks the knob as hard to the side as he can. Doesn't help. Keeps dripping and - ow! His face hurts, bad.

He peers at himself in the mirror and slowly remembers that he wasn't wearing a glove on his left hand, so his fingernails really did rake the left side of his face. A few angry-pink lines are swelling up right under the scar. There's a splotch of black on his chin - must be from where he scratched his chin with the pen - and to top it all off, a not-so-pretty bruise is starting to. . . well, _start_ far downon his right cheek, from banging his face into the floor tiles.

Fine. Guess he can't work in the bathroom, either. At least not without seriously injuring himself.

Now. He wiggles himself down under the covers of his bed - his nice, big bed - and cracks his knuckles, ready to finally get back down to business.

__

On the one hand, if I use just one mirror, I won't have to do many complicated cowculations about trajectory and all that messy stuff. Not that I CAN'T - because I'm a genuis, after all - but it saves me a lot of trouble.

On the other hand, if I only use one mirror, the laser might not build up enough heat to warm up the world's oceans to the nessarcary temperature. That would be BAD.

But, on the OTHER hand -

Thud. Thud. Thud.

He growls under his breath. The universe hates him.

It sounds like something heavy hitting the floor, over and over and over again, without enough time for it to logically be picked up, so he comes to the brilliant conclusion that it must be _several_ heavy somethings hitting the floor. It's worse than the drippy faucet.

Hmmm. It's coming from the break room, so he knows it must be drips of a very different kind. His henchmen.

The growl turns into a snarl. They're about to get the tongue-lashing of their _lives_.

"What in the world are you thud-heads doing in here?" he demands, narrowing his eyes at the henchmen so they'll know he means business.

"Thud-heads," he realizes too late, doesn't actually make much sense, but the henchmen stiffen anyway. Even though they're all at least a head taller than him, they always stiffen when he starts yelling. He can always feels smart and fierce around the henchmen. It soothes the little itchy place in his chest.

The henchmen are all barefoot, so, without really knowing why, he takes his shoes and socks off, too. "We're tryin' to see if we can get both shoes on one foot," one of them finally answers. (A henchman, not a shoe.)

He glowers at them, the annoyance building back up in his chest and burning worse than any chemical rash. "Why?"

They all shrug, one after the other, like they're trying to start that mysterious "wave" thing people do at ball parks. "I guess. . . cuz we don't have anything else to do," the first henchman says.

He runs a quick scan of him. Dark tan, big shoulders, curly nose like his - it's Fred. "Well, why don't you go play a card game or something?" he suggests through teeth that feel like they're stuck together. "You're _bothering _me!"

One of the other henchmen - Bill, he's pretty sure - frowns. "Aww, we were, boss?"

"Yes," he snaps back. "You were! How many times have I told you not to try and put both shoes on one foot while I'm trying to figure out how to warm up the world's oceans three degrees?"

The henchmen exchange blank stares.

"Never mind," he sighs. He should have _known _better than to try to carry on a conversation with them. He rubs a hand across his aching forehead and glances down at his bare feet.

"Whoa." Bill leans in close to him, too close to him. "Your feet are really little, boss."

Whoa is right. Can those tiny things actually belong to him? He doesn't remember them being that little.

His brain tells one of his toes to wiggle, and one of the stubby little blue toes he's looking at obeys. Okay. Guess they _are _his.

"I bet I could fit both of _his _shoes on one foot!" Fred cries happily.

He glares at him, seeing the edges of his eyebrow out of the top of his eyes. "Don't even think about it," he warns. "My shoes are _mine_! And I don't want to get your toenail fungus!"

The rest of the henchmen all sigh like one big. . . he doesn't know. . . sighing thing. "I don't have toenail fungus," one of them whispers as they file out of the room.

Good riddance, he thinks, picking up his shoes in one hand and his socks in the other. Imagine, trying to get both of your shoes on one foot. Why would _any_one, no matter _how _bored they were, try something that dumb?

On the other hand - or foot - what if there's some wonderful evil application to it that he'll never know unless he manages to do it himself? It never hurts to try something new.

Unless it's broccoli. He draws the line at broccoli.

There! It's taken - he glances at the clock - two hours, forty-eight minutes, and twelve seconds, but he managed to get both shoes on one foot!

Granted, it hurts, because his toes are all folded down and smashed into the soft place under them. And he can't think of any evil purpose. And the longer he waits, the more it hurts. His eyes are starting to water.

He wrenches at the shoe on top of his foot, but it doesn't budge. Not even a little. He yanks at it - harder, angrier, desperater - but it's stuck.

The prickles in his shoulders are hurting, too, and he doesn't even know how he got into this mess, let alone how to fix it. Wasn't he trying to figure out how to conquer the world using mirrors and lasers and moons?

He falls to his knees in defeat and balls up his fists. "SHEGO!"

His sidekick bursts into the room, hands flaming, eyes darting in all directions. "What is it?" she snaps.

Oops. It looks like she was expecting Kim Possible to be storming the lair or something, and she doesn't look too happy to find just him with both of his shoes stuck on one foot and a bruised, scratched-up face. Heh-heh.

He smiles his biggest, most charming smile, though he feels his eyes bunching. "What's up, She-dog?" he asks as smoothly as he can.

That doesn't help. Shego's eyes look like thunderclouds. "Explanation. Please. Now."

Uh-oh. She sounds ticked. He struggles to swallow the sudden lump in his throat. "Well, my shoes are kind of - stuck."

"Gee," Shego muses sarcastically, sauntering over to take a look. "I wonder how that happened."

"It wasn't my fault!" he bursts out. "The henchmen started it! They distracted me while I was trying to work on Operation Catastrophic Doom!"

Shego's eyebrows twist. "_That's _what you're calling your latest plan?"

Ah. It must be so nasty that it overwhelms even Shego. Why, the very name alone simply _oozes _wickedness!

"Of course, Shego," he answers, wobbling to his feet. It's not easy to balance with both shoes crammed onto one foot and the other one bare. "I am an evil megalomaniac, after all."

He holds out the hurty foot to her and gives her sad eyes. "Could you _please _help me with my shoes?" he begs, hearing his voice wind up.

For a crazy second, it looks like Shego can't decide whether to laugh or cry. He's never seen her cry.

"You are so annoying," Shego mutters to herself as she grabs the shoe on the bottom of his foot and twists it a little.

_He_'s annoying? No, life is annoying. He's just annoyed. Shego doesn't understand - and that annoys him even more.

Big sigh. He really, really hates days like this.


	35. Ambition

**Ambition**

He emerges from the lab, shaking green stickiness from his hair - correction, from what's _left _of his hair. With shaky hands, he runs a cold, wet washcloth over his cheeks, over and over and over again, hoping it'll soothe the burns on his face.

"Shego," he announces to his sidekick as he plops down into his chair, "I have made an important scientific breakthrough."

Shego doesn't even glance up from the piece of paper she's looking at. "Mmm-hmm, what's that?"

He dabs at a particularly painful splotch on his chin. "Ventilation shafts do not like Jell-O."

_That _gets her attention. "What?" she almost shrieks - Shego's not a shrieker - jerking her head around so fast it looks like she's going to give her herself whiplash.

He grins sheepishly, his way-too-dry lips cracking as he stretches them. Ouch. He drops the smile and yelps, rubbing his mouth in agony.

Shego's eyes droop to half-mast. "Oh, nuh-_uh_," she says, like denying his injuries is going to fix them. "You did _not _blow yourself up again!"

Tightness in his chest makes him cough, and he could swear he sees a cloud of smoke come out of his mouth. "Actually, I did." He hears his voice slip up into a whine. "And it hu-urts!"

Shego flings her arms into the air and rolls her eyes up to the ceiling. "Fantastic," she says, voice all drippy with sarcasm. "Simply amazing." She squints at him in that way that makes him feel like he's being interrogated by the police. "Do we need to vist the ER, or are you good?"

Ooh. He shudders a little at the thought. He doesn't like the ER. Too big and white, with too many nurses running around too fast, and the whole place smells like bathtub cleaner. So he shakes his head. No, he doesn't want to go there. Not today.

"I think I'll be okay," he answers, feeling the top of his scalp - ow, ow, _ow_! - to see exactly how much hair is left. Not much. Just patches of stubble, and a few scraggly little strands of what feels like string. Great. "In a few hours, after the swelling goes down and everything."

"Dr. Drakken, medical expert," Shego says absently, already focusing her attention back on the piece of paper. He growls under his breath. What is there about that thing that could possibly be more interesting than him, especially when he's hurting and needs help? Sure, he might not need to go to the ER, but he might need a Band-Aid - or an ice pack - or maybe just some TLC. (That's an acronym for "Tender Loving Care" that he learned from his book of teen slang.)

As if to answer his question, Shego suddenly starts to snicker. He glances at her warily. He doesn't see anything funny about this situation, unless she's laughing at his nearly-bald head and blacked-up face. "Shego?" he whispers, more to himself than to her.

No answer. A horrible thought occurs to him. What if she's reading something _he_ wrote? What if she stumbled upon one of his failed plans for world domination, or his mad-scientist log, or the love letter for his seventh-grade science teacher that he never got around to finishing because he couldn't find anything that rhymed with "Bunsen burner"?

"Shego, what is that?" he demands, shoving his chair closer to hers.

"It came in the mail today," Shego says. That's NOT an answer.

"From who?" His heart is sinking, even though that doesn't make any sense. How do hearts sink? Ocean liners sink when they hit icebergs or other ships, but hearts are locked firmly in place inside people's chests.

Shego looks up, eyes twinkling mischief. Even before she opens her mouth, he knows what she's going to say. "Your mom."

"SHEGO!" he shrieks. He jumps out of his chair so fast it topples over and hits the ground behind him with a loud thud.

He scrambles over to Shego's chair, but she stands on top of the table and holds the letter over her head, out of his reach, and grins down at him perfectly calmly. How can she be so calm when he feels like his veins are going to pop any second? He can feel them throbbing in his neck as he jumps frantically for the letter, his fingers missing by mere centimeters. If only his hands were bigger. . .

"Give that to me!" he snarls, and by some miracle, his voice goes _lower_. Maybe his vocal chords have finally realized he's an adult. "Opening other people's mail is a federal offense, you know!"

Shego just rolls her eyes and keeps smiling. "Thank you, Mr. Genius-Who-Thinks-Supervillains-Should-Abide-By-U.S.-Postal-Laws."

"Please," he hisses, and, drat the luck, his voice goes high and tiny again. "Please give that to me. Please!"

"Hmmm." Shego rubs her pointy chin, like she's considering that. He peers at her, giving her his biggest eyes and his biggest smile and his best _please-have-mercy-on-me_ face.

"No." His sidekick's voice shatters his hope, and he has no choice but to pound his fists into the top of the table. "But -" Shego holds up a hand, studying the letter like it contains the secret to world domination. " - since you used the magic words, I will read it to you. Although, I think you've probably already heard it."

His feet lose the ground beneath him, and he pitches forward. "What do you mean?" he yelps. "What _is_ it, Shego?"

"Your mom found it in the attic," Shego explains, twitches still dancing around her lips. "Apparently you wrote it when you were in sixth grade."

He runs his hand back across his head, and a bit of lemon-lime Jell-O falls into his palm. He stares at it, wishing he could be back in the lab, trying to figure out how to make The Incredibly Evil Tower Of Jell-O, wishing it would work and the world would be kneeling at his feet - well, everyone _in _the world, because the planet doesn't have knees. Then nobody would dare to look at him with anything but adoration and respect.

Shego's eyes don't have anything even close to adoration and respect in them. "What I Want To Be When I Grow Up," she reads in a high, squeaky voice. "By Drew Lipsky."

He bites down on his bottom lip, so hard he can taste blood. "Shego, I am going to dock your paycheck so much your grandchildren will be born dizzy!" he snaps.

Shego apparently isn't impressed with his threat (which, now that he thinks about it, didn't make much sense), because she keeps going. "'1. A famous scientist, most importantly.'" She stops and chuckles, shaking her head. "Whoa, Doc, you really didn't know how to spell back then, did you?"

He gives her a Look of Death, one he's been practicingin front of the mirror for just such occasions. He knows that's one of those questions he's not supposed to answer. _Retortical _or something like that; words are so hard. . .

"'Maybe I'll be the one to discover a cure for cancer or something,'" Shego continues. "'I'd like that a lot. OR, maybe, someday, in a lab experiment gone horribly wrong, I'll gain powers and become a science superhero! Like Spider-Man. I could call myself. . . Dragon-Man!'" She tilts her head, studying him in a way that makes him want to grow a different face. "Or maybe," she continues, still sarcastically, "I'll just turn myself blue, instead."

He buries his face in his hands and tries to picture himself young and unblue. The memory that comes back is vague, unfocused, like he needs to adjust the little TV in his mind, but he can still see a scrawny kid, with skin the color of cookie dough and weird teeth. He swallows hard, because his throat is suddenly lumping up. He doesn't want to remember being Drew Lipsky.

"Do you always have to be such a smart Alex?" he demands, hoping to distract Shego from her mission. It probably won't work - Shego doesn't distract nearly as easily as he does - but it's still worth a try.

"Alec," Shego says without missing the proverbial beat.

He blinks at her. "What?" That makes even less sense. What's an alec?

"Never mind." Shego waves her hand, dismissing the non-word word entirely. "You wanted to be a _superhero_?"

_You WERE a superhero, Shego!_ That's what he wants to say, but he doesn't. It's one of those things they don't speak of.

"'2. Handsome.'" Shego puts down the letter and looks at him again, out and out grinning. "Well, that was a miserable failure."

He already _knew _that, but hearing someone else say it out loud makes something in his chest just snap. "GIVE ME THAT LETTER!" he cries, hurting his throat. He makes one more lunge for it, but Shego shoves it behind her back at the last second, and he vaults all the way over the table and lands on the other side, head in Commodore Puddles' water dish.

Shego keeps reading, doesn't bother to ask if he's all right. "'I'm kind of weird-looking right now' - ya think? - 'and I wanna grow out of it. I want the braces to work, and I want to get rid of the glasses. Maybe I could even get muscular like Eddy's dad.'"

Hindsight is 20/20, they say. He's never understood that expression until now.

He lifts his head out of the water bowl and shakes the water off it, until the drops finally stop running down his neck and making it cold. Secretly, he hopes some hits Shego. Preferably right on the nose.

But when he turns around, coughing and sputtering, Shego is perfectly dry. What is she, immune to _every_thing?

"Well," Shego sits criss-cross-applesauce down on the table, "you got rid of the glasses. And the braces did work."

It's the closest thing to a compliment he's heard all day, and it puffs his chest out. "And, believe it or not, I _have _filled out _some _since then." He grins then, showing off all of his orthodontist's hard work.

Shego's lips twitch, and she picks the letter back up. "'Popular. I want to have a lot of friends, but I don't want to be like the popular kids at school, 'cuz they're jerks. I feel kind of funny around kids my age, maybe because I'm smarter than most of them. Not to sound arrogant or anything.'" She rolls her eyes. "Of course not, Drewbiekins."

His stomach knots up, stiff and hard. Even though it embarrasses him, that's still his mother's special name for him, and he doesn't want her using it, having it in her mouth long enough to say, long enough to get her germs on it. And he wasn't being arrogant. There's nothing arrogant about knowing you're smarter than most people, right?

_Right?_

"I really was a child prodigy, you know," he coughs, trying to keep his voice calm. Why doesn't his villainous anger ever scare anyone?

"Except in spelling," Shego chimes in.

"Paycheck!" he snaps back. "It's getting smaller by the minute!"

"'NUMBER FOUR'," Shego reads loudly, talking over him, ignoring him. "A really great. . . dad. . . Because mine. . . left."

Silence. Thick, sick silence. He bends in the middle and clenches his fists and bites his lower lip. What he's feeling right now hurts a lot worse than a heating vent blowing up in your face.

Shego's voice trails off, and she stares at the letter as if it's written in Japanese. "Oh," is all that leaves her mouth.

He never told her. It was an unspoken agreement they had - he never asks about her parents, she never asks about his father. It's much better for everyone involved that way.

But now she knows, and it feels like his stomach is _made _of Jell-O. "Shego - " He doesn't want to say anything more.

"I know, I know." Shego's face settles back into its pointiness. "Moving along."

Forget docking her paycheck. Right now, he's never been more grateful to anyone.

"'5. I hope I make my mom proud of me. Actually, I hope I make EVERYONE proud of me. I don't ever want anyone not to like me again.'" Shego finishes the list and coughs a little. "Wow. You. . uh. . . have a funky way of making people like you, dude."

"Once I dominate the world - " he begins.

Shego interrupts, which he hates. Yep, her paycheck is getting docked after all. "I know, I know. Once you dominate the world, not liking you will be a crime punishable by death."

How can she say that so. . . so. . . _calmly_, like world domination is no big deal? "Exactly. And then it won't matter that I'm not handsome or muscular or hairy or - "

_Whoa, Drakken. Stop._ He reaches up to his mouth and grabs his tongue between two fingers, to stop it from blurting out anything else.

Shego doesn't even seem to have heard. "Dragon-Man," she mutters to herself, shaking her head. "Dragon-Man, defeating the forces of his evil with his incredible non-arrogant brainpower _while_ managing to dream of contact lenses and muscles!"

His heart hits an iceberg and sinks. "Lock those lips, Shego!" he barks.

"Okay, okay." Shego holds her hands up over her head, still laughing. "Chill, Dr. D. I think it's kinda cute, actually."

_Cute?_ He peers at her suspiciously, but the twinkle in her eyes isn't evil. It's. . . softer, somehow. A little bit more like Mother's.

"I'm not cute," he protests, sticking out his lower lip to prove it. There's nothing cute about mad scientists.

Snorting, Shego reaches out and pushes his chest with both hands. He stumbles backward and lands, buns first, in Commodore Puddles' water dish. "No," Shego agrees as he grunts and struggles awkwardly to his feet. "You're not cute." She tilts her head to the side and lets out what almost sounds like a giggle. "But you probably were when you were twelve."

He scowls at her, wanting this conversation to be over. Exploding Jell-O is starting to sound better and better all the time. "I was not," he mutters defiantly. "I was skinny and I had these huge round glasses that made me look like an owl and my front teeth stuck straight out."

The instant the words are out of his mouth, he wants to suck them back in. Why did he just tell _Shego _that? She's probably going to tell everyone else, and then he'll never hear the end of it!

"A real superhero." Shego puts her hands on her hips and breaks into a little-old-lady voice, which would make him laugh if he wasn't feeling all mashed up inside. "My, you were an ambitious li'l whippersnapper, weren't you?"

"Oh, come on," he says, trying to keep the whine out of his voice. "What did _you _want to be when you were little?"

More silence. Well, he's not going to take no for an answer this time. Shego's not going to learn all of his adolescent fantasties without some tradeoff. "_Pl-eee-ease_, Shego," he begs, injecting the whine full force. "I'm gonna bu-ug you until you te-ell me!"

Shego folds her arms on the tabletop and throws her face down into them. "Fine," she mumbles. "An astronaut."

He blinks, sure he must have heard wrong. "What?"

"I wanted to be an astronaut." When Shego lifts her head, she isn't quite smiling, but she doesn't look angry either. Her eyes are far away, like she's staring into the past. "Until, that is, I found out more about comets than I really wanted to know." She snorts, bringing herself back to present-day Shego. "Then I decided I wanted to be a teacher."

"Really?" He perches on the edge of his chair and leans in to hear more. "A teacher?"

Shego shakes her head and waves her hand. "Forget it, Doc. It obviously wasn't meant to be."

"Yeah." He shakes his own head, trying to clear it of thoughts of Shego as a little girl, wanting to be an astronaut. It's hard to see her as anything but what she is now. "You were meant to be my sidekick and help me conquer Planet Earth."

"Joy." Shego gets to her feet, smirking at him. "That's _much _better than being an astronaut."

He grins and folds his hands happily in his lap. "Yes, Shego. I think so, too."

For a minute, the world is the way it should be - well, as much as it can be without him in control of it. Until, that is, Shego whips out her cell phone and takes a picture of his letter and threatens to send it to every villain in this solar system unless he forgets about docking her paycheck.

Then he remembers why he needs to conquer the planet. So nothing like that can ever happen again.

He straightens his shoulders, runs a hand over his head again - it feels like some hair's already starting to grow back - and heads back to the lab.


	36. Spiral

**Spiral**

You can be in a room full of people and still feel really, really lonely. In theory, that sounds weird, but at a villains' convention, it makes perfect sense.

Everyone he tried to talk to shooed him away - even Shego, who said she wanted to be able to have some "girl time," whatever that means. Oh, well. True geniuses are never appreciated by their peers, he's heard. And, besides, now he has the whole refreshment table all to himself. Stupid ol' DNAmy's not the only one who knows how to make goodies.

He ducked down behind the table every now and then, hiding his face in the tablecloth, whenever she came by, chasing stupid ol' Monkey Fist around the room. Monkey Fist doesn't even _like _her, from what he can tell. Serves her right for rejecting him.

Still, no one can possibly be unhappy while eating funnel cakes. Delicious, piping-hot, fresh-off-the-griddle funnel -

They're _gone_. Every last one has disappeared.

He freezes in place. _Oh, no. I DIDN'T. Not AGAIN. _

But, deep down, he knows he did. His stomach feels like a bungee cord that's stretched too tight.

_Ooohh, _boy. He raises a hand and swipes sweat from his forehead. He's never noticed how _hot _HenchCo's basement can get. It makes the room seem small and stuffy, like there's not enough air for him to breathe. It almost makes him feel kind of. . . sick.

No, no, no. He closes his eyes and takes deep breaths in through his nose and silently hopes that he won't explode. It'll pass. If he just sits down for a few minutes and gets some cool air on his face - maybe a washcloth - he'll feel a lot better.

Funny. That almost looks like his belt lying there on the ground.

It _is _his belt. His stomach's swollen all out, and it makes him feel gross - sometime between the first funnel cake and the two hundredth, his belt must have. . . uh. . . popped off and landed on the floor. He bends down to get it, but that hurts so much he gasps and sinks back down into a folding chair.

And his mouth is so dry. _Really _dry, like he's been out in the middle of the desert for six months.

His eyes come to rest on the punch bowl. Maybe some juice will unstick his lips.

He grabs a glass - ow, ow, ow - and dips it into the punch, not bothering with the amazing little ladle-thing he likes. Right now, he's on a mission. Besides, it's kind of hard to move, considering he feels like he weighs about four hundred pounds.

Chugging the glass of punch doesn't actually help that much, though. Neither does sitting down and fanning his face with his hand as hard as he can. Muffled bits of conversation blur in his ears, people talking and laughing and carrying on with the convention like nothing's wrong.

Tiny and lonely and scared, he closes his eyes and pictures his big, comfy bed. His soft, striped pillow. The hot water bottle in the medicine closet.

_Okay, Drakken, okay._ He licks his lips and moans under his breath. _Go get Shego. She'll take you home. Everything will be okay. It'll all be okay._

His stomach is swimming. He shouldn't have drunk the punch.

If only he could just close his eyes and will Shego here - if only she had ESP and suddenly came running up to him - then he wouldn't have to haul his big swollen belly across the basement for everyone to stare at. For once, he wishes he was invisible.

But he can't, and she doesn't, and he's not, so he wobbles to his feet and grabs onto the wall to keep from falling. He can _hear _his insides sloshing as he inches forward. That's not a good sign.

"Shego!" he calls into the smear ahead of him that's getting blurrier by the second. "Shego, where are you? Shego, I don't feel very good. . ."

Nothing. No answer. He takes another step, as big as he dares, and slams into something very small and very solid.

Correction. Some_one_. Dementor. The last person in the world he wants to see right now.

"Drakken!" Dementor's annoyingly shrill voice sounds far away somehow. "Why do you not WATCH WHERE YOU ARE GOING, you - "

He doesn't hear the rest over the ringing in his ears. All he can think is that the collision must have jarred something loose, because in one horrible, frightening, dizzying moment, his middle goes into reverse.

All over Dementor.

For a second, they just stare at each other, stunned into silence. But that second doesn't last long. He bursts into tears at the exact moment Dementor starts to squall like a cat being bathed in a sink.

Almost before he can blink, Dementor's henchmen are huddling around him, asking his rival questions, and then shooting glares at _him _over their shoulders. No one comes to him, and he starts to tremble. This is horrible. The worst thing that could possibly happen to him. So many things seem to conspire to make him look stupid, and now his own belly has turned traitorous.

"Shego!" he wails hysterically. "Shego, Shego, She-_go_!"

Someone grabs his hand in both of theirs and leads him away, which is good, because he has no idea where he's going. That same someone gently pushes him into a chair and then pats his knee, like that's going to do him any good.

He glances down at the hands, too square to be his sidekick's. Whoever this is is being awfully nice to him, but he only wants one person now, and this isn't it. "Shego!" he squawks again.

"Dr. Drakken," the owner of the hands murmurs, crispy voice firm but soft. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows it's Senior. "I will go get your lady friend."

He closes his eyes and licks his lips and slinks down in the chair. At least he feels a little less like he's going to explode now. No, the ache's been replaced by a shaky, queasy feeling that's almost worse.

The next thing he knows, Shego's there, plastering wet paper towels to his forehead. "Geez, I can't take you anywhere," she mutters.

He hauls in a deep breath and sniffles a bunch of times to at least make the contents of his _nose _stay where they belong. He doesn't trust his mouth to open.

"All right," Shego begins, like this kind of thing happens every day, "what happened?"

"I - I - I - " He swallows hard and tries to get out a sentence. "I - I think I ate too much."

Shego snorts lightly. "You, eat too much? Never."

All he can do is shake his head and cry. She's using tearing-down words, and he really doesn't need to be torn down right now.

Shego hisses through her teeth and plants her hands on her hips, leaving him to hold the paper towels to his face. "Okay, look. I was talking to someone - because _I _have a life - and I'm going to go tell him good-bye. Then we'll go home." She pinches her eyebrows at him in that _Drakken-you-loser _expression. "Understand, Doc?"

He's too weak to argue. He nods and blows his nose on one of the paper towels.

Dementor's voice shrieks from behind him and makes him feel even sicker. "Where are you _going_?" he wails in Shego's general direction.

Shego rolls her eyes as if he's wasting her time. "And who are you, the Gestapo? We're going home."

If he wasn't so wobbly, this would kind of be funny - Shego telling off Dementor, who has lovely yellow-brown-green stuff running all down the front of his clothes. (What did he ever eat that was _green_?) "What about _me_?" Dementor complains. "Is no one going to clean me off?"

Shego grunts and steps around Dementor. "I missed the part where I was on your payroll. Look, you've got five dozen henchmen. Have one of them take care of you."

"It is your boss-person's fault that I am dirty in the firstest place!" Dementor yells. "He probably did this on porpoise just to humiliate me!"

Humiliate _him?_ Who was the one who just tossed their funnel cakes? "I didn't. . . didn't mean to," he manages to choke out.

"Right." Shego barely gives Dementor a bored-looking glance. "Like he went and stuffed himself at the refreshment table just so he could come over and hurl on you. Get over yourself."

Dementor goes into a long string of German he's glad he doesn't understand. Shego's footsteps fade into the distance. He dares to breathe.

His eyes feel heavy, so he closes them. They don't open again until he hears Shego say, "All right, Puke-Face, let's get ya home."

Home. Where there are blankets and pillows and tummy medicine.

He struggles to his feet and his stomach promptly convulses. "Oooooooo-_oooh_," he whimpers.

"You don't have to be so dramatic," Shego mutters.

He can't help it. He feels _awful_.

Somehow, they make their way through the crowd, which is parting for him, but not in the way he's always wanted it to. Everyone's definitely looking at him now - staring is more like it. Their eyes are disgusted, and he's ashamed.

"Is he all right?" a voice even squeakier than Dementor's asks.

Shego chuckles for the first time all night - at least that he can remember. "It's just an upset stomach, Junior. Nothin' he hasn't had before. He'll be fine."

Easy for her to say. She's not the one willing her digestive tract to work right with every step she takes. He closes his eyes and silently hopes DNAmy's not watching.

"So," he asks, craning his neck forward so the fresh air can blow on his face, "who were you talking to?"

Shego sighs heavily and taps her fingers on the hovercraft's controls. "Not like it's any of _your _business - but I was talking to Junior. You know, Senior's son?"

Ah, that's right. The squeaky-voiced kid. The one she doesn't rip into like she does with everyone else, especially him.

A horrible thought occurs to him. "He's about your age, right?"

"Ye-ah." Shego looks at him sideways and quirks her mouth. "Your point?"

He's not sure how to say his point without blushing. "You guys aren't - I mean you don't - I mean -"

Shego's eyes harden. "We're just friends, Dr. D. For now."

"For _now_?" His eyes go so wide, he almost loses his contacts.

Her lips twitch. "Don't worry so much. Junior's a sweet kid. It's not like he's gonna mug me in a dark alley."

Oh, no. He's never heard Shego describe anyone as "sweet" before. "Besides," she continues, "I can take care of myself."

Right. Of course she can. She only has those incredible glowy hands and can fight better than anyone else he knows and bring people to their knees with one well-chosen sarcastic remark - why are his neck prickles going up so far?

"So maybe," Shego digs into him with her eyes, "I'll date whoever I want to date, and you should just accept that."

Uh-huh. And maybe he should also take the remote control to his most valuable Doomsday device and give it to a gorilla. The very thought makes his insides churn.

A few minutes later, he realizes that's not what's making his insides churn. He squeezes himself up as tight as he can in his seat and tries not to think about funnel cakes.

How is he supposed to not think about funnel cakes when he's constantly telling himself not to think about funnel cakes? He can almost _smell _them - and his seat belt's digging into his still-swollen gut -

"Shego, pull over!"

"Uh, Doc." Shego sounds annoyed. "We're kind of a few hundred feet off the ground right now. I can't exactly do that."

"But She-_go_!" The desperateness rises in his throat, and it's not alone. "I'm gonna -"

She jumps away from him like she thinks he's contagious. "Over the side, over the side!"

He does. And, oh, man, it's not fun.

Once he's done, he raises his head and wipes his mouth on his sleeve and manages a wobbly smile as he realizes something. "I feel better now," he informs Shego.

"Fantastic," she replies - sarcastically, of course. She doesn't even _care_.

Only about thirty seconds go by, though, before she suddenly starts laughing. Shaking her head and chuckling like he's something off _America's Funniest Home Videos._

He glares at her. "This isn't funny!"

"Sorry, sorry." If she's so sorry, why doesn't the laughter stop? "I was just picturing that landing on some poor unsuspecting passerby."

In spite of everything, he grins. "_I _hope it lands on Kim Possible!" he chimes in.

"Hey, yeah." Shego actually smiles at him. "Then you'd have taken out your two least favorite people in one night."

He snuggles himself into his seat, rests his head against the - well, the headrest - and yawns. "It was all part of my master plan, Shego," he explains, eager to protect his reputation.

Shego grunts. "Of course. I mean, if you have to blow cookies, it might as well be on someone you hate, right?"

He doesn't answer because he barely hears her. A few minutes later, he's sound asleep.


	37. Mischief Managed

RANDOM NOTE: My mother, sister, and I went to the mall this afternoon, and they had some KP cell phone charms in a little vending-machine thingamabob. My sister got Ron, I got Drakken, and they're both _really _cute. I'm so happy! :)

**Mischief Managed**

This has not been a good day so far.

First of all, he left his lunch money at home on the counter - he forgot to grab it while he was dashing out to catch the bus, which comes a lot _earlier _now that they're on Daylight Savings Time - and had to eat a frozen peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich that tasted like dead fish. And they used crunchy peanut butter, and he _hates _crunchy peanut butter.

Anyway, the too-crunchy peanut butter and dead-fish jelly got stuck in his braces and sat heavy in his belly all through his next class - gym, of _course_ - where Coach Barkin made the boys run laps until his legs felt like melted rubber bands - actually, they felt like that halfway through the first lap. None of the other boys even broke sweats for at least ten more minutes.

The locker room before and after was even worse, though. He changed in a shower stall with the curtain pulled closed tight and tried not to think about how all the other boys were getting muscles in weird places and hair in even weirder places. He wasn't. Still isn't.

Carl struck up a conversation about how his dad is making him wear deodorant now. He knows what that is - learned it in that "puberty" book Mom got for him - and, now that he thinks about it, he might need some, too.

But what is he supposed to do, walk up to his mother and ask her to start buying him deodorant? He'll die of embarrassment before he gets the third word out, he knows. He couldn't look her in the eye for a week after reading _Your Changing Body_.

Even science class, the part of the day that makes everything all better, was horrible. His usual teacher - the one he'd like to marry when he grows up, as long as she doesn't get a boyfriend or something first - was out sick, and they got some yelly substitute who kept calling him Andrew even though he told her twenty-five times that it was just Drew.

Because it _is_. It's on his birth certificate and everything. She wouldn't even let him use his finger to follow along in the book, even though the words tangle themselves into non-words in his brain when he doesn't.

And now this.

He'd almost forgotten about his English assignment yesterday. _Write a persuasive essay on the topic of your choice_, it said.

Right. Uh-huh. And why doesn't he sprout wings and jump over the moon while he's at it?

He's been able to keep up - barely - in English. He knows what nouns and verbs and adjectives and adverbs are - and he can usually answer the questions right just by repeating what the book says. Mostly he just nods and says, "Yes," a lot, pretending like he has the slightest clue what the teacher and the rest of his classmates are talking about. Even though he doesn't. If he asks questions, he'll just annoy them all, and he knows there's not enough time in last period - not enough time in the whole _school day _- for all the questions he has.

But write an essay? He can't do that. He can't pick out the right words and stick them in the places that make him sound all smart and professional. It must be something that got left out of his DNA.

He knew, no matter what he tried to write for his essay, it wouldn't work. So he chose "Why Name-Brand Corn Flakes Are Better Than Generic Corn Flakes" for his topic and just scribbled down:

Becuz I like them better, that's why.

__

F.

F for Failure. F for Flunking. F for Forget-about-getting-into-the-college-of-your-choice.

Julie waves her paper around for the whole world to see. She got an A, of course. Julie's great at wordy stuff. Carl and those guys shove their papers in each other's faces and then start laughing and punching each other on their arms.

He crumples his up into a ball, shoves it deep into his backpack, and slinks out the door. Halfway there, Carl bangs into him, on purpose, shoving him back against the wall with a shoulder that's getting muscles. "Outta the way, _Nancy_," he scoffs.

Those stupid detective books. If he's ever president, he'll ban them from the country. "Stop pushing me, Carl!" he yells.

Carl's already left, but Fred glances in his direction and says, "Stop pushing me!" in a really high, squealy voice. Making fun of him, of course. Fred's one of the boys whose voice is already going low and croaky like a man's.

So he stomps out into the hall with his ears bright red and his shoulders prickly and his stomach swirling with anger. Eddy's waiting for him there, doing chin-ups in a doorway. His arms are getting muscles, too.

"Dude?" Eddy hops down from the door and puts a grubby hand on his shoulder. "What's wrong, Drew?"

His cousin's hand is sweaty and heavy, and he shakes it off. "I got an F," he mumbles. "In English."

Eddy nods like he understands perfectly. "English _seriously _stinks."

"I know." He looks down at his shoes - Eddy's old ones, gross - and sighs. "My mom's gonna be upset."

His cousin looks at him with that Eddy-gleam in his eyes, the one that always gets them in trouble. "Who says she hasta know?"

"Eddy!" He hears his voice squeal nearly out of human hearing range. "What do you mean?"

"We burn it," Eddy replies, matter-of-factly.

His mouth goes dry, partly from fear, partly because - he actually wants to do it. "You got matches?"

"Always." Eddy pats the pocket of his shorts. "Never know when they're gonna come in handy. Seriously!"

He doesn't ask questions. He just follows Eddy to the nearby park and digs into his backpack and gives him the paper for burning.

Eddy takes the paper and reads it, eyes scanning the paper, lips moving, the way _his _always do. "I dunno why they gave you an F, cuz," he finally says, shaking his head in disgust. "That's practically poetry."

He's not sure whether he's joking or not. It's hard to tell with Eddy. "Just burn it, already." Doing something he knows he'll get in trouble for if caught makes him feel like he _really _needs to go the bathroom.

"All righty, then." Eddy takes a match out of his pocket and strikes it on his sneaker. He takes a couple of steps backward by instinct.

"Flaming death!" Eddy cries, throwing the match down on top of the paper. His cousin's so excited, it excites him, too. Kind of makes him forget the rules and want to be as wild as Eddy.

"Yeah!" he yells. He watches as the paper twists and folds and crumples into a black, ashy heap. For a second, he pretends it's Carl. And Substitute Lady. And Coach Barkin.

Then the flames spread to a bush. And it burns. Fast.

He wants to run, but there's smoke in his face, and panic in his chest, and his brain doesn't know how to tell his legs to GO! He's not sure if he really yells, "Mommy!" or not, but he sure wants to.

__

I'm dead I'm dead I'm dead I'm gonna die.

"Ohhhhhh, man!" Eddy's voice hollers over the fire and the smoke. "There's some lady -"

"What lady?" he chokes.

"In the house next to the park. She's got 'er phone - and she's callin - I think it's 9-1-1, seriously, I do!" When he looks up, Eddy's taking off in the one direction that doesn't have smoke billowing from it. "Come on, Drew!" he hollers back over his shoulder.

__

I'm dead I'm dead I'm dead and if I don't die I'm gonna get arrested.

"Ed-_dy_!" he wails to the cousin who he already can't see anymore. He darts his eyes around wildly - smoke, smoke, smoke, fire, smoke, clear place, smoke, fire -

Clear place!

By some miracle, his feet start moving toward safety and the rest of him goes with them. He runs and runs and runs, and he hears the sirens but he doesn't pay much attention to them until he runs - thud - into somebody's very large, very blue chest. Then he just pulls back and stares.

Oh. It's a policeman with a blue uniform. And muscles bigger than _any _boy in his class, and a scowl on his face to rival Coach Barkin's.

__

I'm dead.

A couple firemen rush toward a hydrant, faces serious, and he twists his head around to watch them. "You happen to know how this blaze got started?" the officer asks.

He gulps and wills himself not to faint. Flashes of things he's seen on TV pop into his head, and he yells them straight into the officer's face. "I have rights, you know! All I have to give you is my name, rank, and serial number!"

The policeman raises one eyebrow. "Calm down, son. I just asked you a question."

"I'm not your son!" It's a stupid thing to say, but his mouth is too dry - just from the smoke, of course - to let out anything else.

"All right, tell you what." The policeman holds out a hand to him, and he shrinks back. When boys put out hands to him, it's to punch him or steal his lunch money or at least give him a good hard spanking. "Why don't you come down to the station and you can answer it there?"

Goose bumps break out on his arms. This can't be happening. "Please don't arrest me," he yelps, forgetting to be brave. "_Please _don't arrest me."

The officer bends down, close enough for him to see that his eyes are twinkly. He hasn't seen too many grown-up men with twinkly eyes, and it makes him feel a little less like he's going to barf. "We're not arresting you. . . what's your name, young man?"

_Young man. _Not "kid" or "boy." He stands up a little taller, straightens his shoulders to make them look like they're getting muscles. "Drew," he answers - yes, he remembered it. "Drew Lipsky."

_Drew _Theodore P. _Lipsky._ He coughs. "Do you need my middle name, too?" _And initial._

"No, first and last are fine." The policeman scribbles something down on a little book. "So, Drew, we're not going to arrest you."

"Not even if I accidentally helped start the fire?" Stupid tongue. _Baaaaaaaaaaaaad_, bad, bad tongue. Why it did say that?

The officer's eyes stop twinkling. "No. But we're definitely taking you down to the station and asking you a few more questions."

"Will - will you cuff me?" He swallows a big ol' lump.

The twinkle starts again. "No, I don't believe that'll be necessary."

Phew.

He looks out the window and rests his chin on his folded-up arms. "And that's what happened," he finishes. "So, it was really all Eddy's fault."

"Uh-huh." The policeman turns and parks the car in front of the police station. "Come on inside, Drew. We'll call your parents."

He nearly leaves dead-fish jelly on the back seat of the police car. "Can't I just stay in here? It's nice."

The officer opens the back door and gives him a _get-out-please _look. "Cozy," he continues, running his hand down one of the seats. "Is this genuineleather?"

Police Guy's look loses the _please_. He hops out and trips and sprawls on the sidewalk. "Ow."

The policeman helps him up and inside the building, and he sticks his thumb straight inside his mouth and almost starts to suck. But he catches himself in time. Nobody sucks their thumb in seventh grade. Not even him.

But he _really _doesn't want the police calling his mom. She's about the nicest lady in the entire world, but when she's mad - oooh. He shudders. When she's mad, no one can yell like Mom.

"Did they put the fire out?" he whispers. Visions of the entire park going up in flames start in his brain, and he runs his tongue over his teeth, trying not to cry.

"Yes." The officer nods. "Small fire. Wasn't hard to do."

Double phew.

"But there _was _some damage to park property."

His tongue gets caught in his braces - phooey - and that's when the tears start. "I'm sorry!" he wails. "I didn't mean to! Please don't send me to jail! I didn't mean to! I'm sorry!"

Through a blur, he feels big hands on his shoulders, and someone starts to rock him back and forth, just a little. "Drew - look - it's all right. We're not sending you to jail. The property damaged was mostly grass - a few bushes. But - "

Suddenly, he knows what that "but" is, and he wrenches himself away. "I'm gonna have to pay for it, aren't I?"

The officer nods, and he grabs onto a chair with both hands, because suddenly he feels like he's going to spin right off into space if he doesn't hold something. "I don't have money," he whimpers.

"Your parents -" Police Guy begins.

He presses his lips together and feels a tear trickle down into the little dip between his nose and his mouth - what's that thing called, anyway? "I just have a mom. And she doesn't have much money, either. I'm wearing Eddy's hand-me-downs, okay?" He hears his voice shriek up. "I'm probably the only kid in the history of the world to have to wear their _younger _cousin's hand-me-downs!"

The officer sighs and takes off his cap to run his hand back through his hair. It's got speckles of gray in it, like Mom's. "Community service at the park should take care of that."

Oh, no. He's heard of that. Seen it on TV. "Do - do I have to wear one of those balls and chains on my ankle?" he squawks.

Police Guy looks like he's trying not to smile. That's _probably _a good thing. "No, son," the officer says. "Just come down to the park on Saturdays and pick up trash."

Saturday. The only day of the week without school or church. The day he gets to do chemistry experiments and watch cartoons. "For how long?" he demands.

"Two weeks." The policeman's eyes twinkle. "And bring along this 'Eddy' fellow, too. Half of the damage is his, too, after all."

_That _makes him smile. If Eddy had gotten off scot free, he would have been beyond angry. "Maybe even more," he adds helpfully. "Because it was his idea. And he ran off and left me to take the blame." He sighs and shakes his head. "He will not be thanked when I receive my Nobel Prize."

Police Guy actually laughs. "You're getting a Nobel Prize?"

"Someday." He squirms on the cold floor; he hates being laughed at. "For being a great scientist and helping the world and stuff."

The officer puts his hat back on his head and walks over to the huge desk in the middle of the room. "I'll need your phone number, Drew."

Hoo-boy.

He could hear Mom screaming all the way across the room - _through _the phone. First, she yelled at the policeman. Then she tried to yell at him. Then she finally just started squawking about what a bad influence Eddy is.

"She's emotional," he explains as the policeman hangs up.

Another officer behind the desk raises an eyebrow. "It runs in the family."

He swipes all the leftover tears off his face and wipes his glasses on his shirt. It was a nice shirt - a good shirt, the kind you're supposed to wear to school - no writing or rips - but now it's got soot stains all over it and it smells bad.

"Drew." The police officer who arrested him squats down to look him in the eye, and he looks at the ground. "I don't ever want to see you at this station again, do you understand me?"

He nods yes. He doesn't ever want to _be _at this station again.

"But - look at me." He snaps his head up before the policeman can tilt his chin with his finger.

"It's gonna be okay," Police Guy says, so softly he dares to believe him. He winks one of his twinkly eyes. "I remember what it was like to be eleven."

"Twelve," he corrects. And then an idea jumps into his brain and nearly knocks him over with its brilliance.

"Uh -" He coughs. Clears his throat. Almost spits, except he can't find a trash can. "Excuse me?" He tugs on the policeman's sleeve. "Can I ask - ask you something?"

The guy leans in close to him. Good. He doesn't gag, so the situation's not quite desperate. "What?"

"I -" He closes his eyes, because he really doesn't want to have to look at someone while saying this. "I - I need to start wearing deodorant."

The only reason he's able to keep going is because he doesn't hear the policeman make any disgusted noises. "But I don't have a dad. . . and I don't know how to tell my mom. Could you - maybe - just - **_ask her_?" **

On those last words, his throat suddenly feels really weird, and his voice winds down into a place it's never been to. Someplace low and croaky, like a man's.

He puts his hand up to his throat and lets his mouth gape open like a bullfrog. He almost doesn't even care if he catches flies.

It cracked. _Finally_.

It was kind of hard to care about his voice once Mom showed up, though. She was through yelling by that point. She just looked at him with those sad eyes, the ones that said, _I'm disappointed in you, Drew Theodore_. That's worse.

He didn't say anything on the ride home, because the words wouldn't come. He just looked at the stars and tried not to start bawling again. If he did that, she'd start, and he can't stand to see his mom cry.

She did stop at Smarty Mart on the way home, thanks to that policeman. And he learned something. Shopping for deodorant with his mom is not fun. At _all_. By the time they got back out, he was sure his face was going to be stuck on neon red for the rest of his life.

Mom didn't spank him - because she doesn't believe in physical punishment - and she didn't send him to his room without dinner - because he's too thin already - like he doesn't KNOW that - but the disappointment on her face makes him wish she'd do one of them. Or both. Once he got home, he just went into the bathroom and flushed the toilet five times in a row until the urge to suck his thumb went away.

Now, he lays down on his bed, head against the wall, examining the - thing (he's not sure what to call it) of deodorant. Smells okay. Not like flowers, but it's a lot better than sweat. Or that one formula he mixed up one time, the one that actually made his hair curl up at the ends.

Ohhhhhhhhhhh. He's getting another idea. A good one. He has to jump off the bed and flail his arms and make a few noises to get it to turn itself into words, but it's worth it.

That stuff. The formula. Practically a stink bomb. Into Carl's deodorant. And his buddies'. Maybe even Eddy's, if he's still mad at him tomorrow.

Yeah. He grins as he yanks open his pajama drawer. That might make this whole stupid day worth it.

NOTE:

*"Coach Barkin" is Coach _Franklin _Barkin, our Mr. B's dad. I figure this was before he retired and went into cosplay at the seaport.


	38. I Can't

PRUDISH WARNING IN CASE ANYBODY CARES: Alcohol references; no drunkenness.

**I Can't**

Okay. He's checked his giant TV screen - no unusual activity occurring outside - and all the cool little mini security cameras - no unusual activity inside - except that one of the henchmen looks like he's trying to do ballet - but that doesn't really have anything to do with him. The piece of cheese he dropped under his desk last week is growing mold quite nicely. Shego will be here in half an hour.

He sighs contentedly and gives his knuckles a nice loud crack. Everything's as it should be, and he can work on his latest evil scheme.

__

Operation: French Fry Famine!

Something nags at the back of his brain. He vowed never - never, ever, _ever _- to use fast food in any of his schemes again. But, he tells himself, this only vaguely involves fast food. He only put "French fry" in the title because it sounds neat.

It's okay.

_Step 1. Grow my own potato garden, _he scribbles frantically. _Step 2. Figur out a way to make the rest of the world's potato crops FAIL! MUA-HA-HA! _Ooh, look at him. He wrote out an evil laugh. Very impressive.

Still, he's not quite sure exactly _how _to make the rest of the potatoes die. Potato bugs? Do they even eat potatoes, or do they just look like potatoes?

_Focus, Drakken, _he scolds himself.

_Step 3. Start a huge potato empire. No one will ever get French Fries, or baked potatos, or sweet potatos, or mashed potatos, or ANYTHING EVER AGAIN! Unless, of course, they make ME ruler of the WORLD!_

There. And, best of all, there's no way any little girls can get hurt in this scheme. That horrible, guilty feeling in his stomach can finally go away.

Still, as he eats his Lucky Charms and tries to figure out the crossword puzzle on the back of the box, something still keeps tugging at him, annoying him, because he feels like he's forgetting something. Something important, but he can't figure out what. Most frustrating.

Even when Shego arrives, he barely greets her because he's busy checking the calendar. Today doesn't have anything pre-printed on it like "Valentine's Day" or "Easter" or "New Moon," but somebody's drawn a star in the corner. A _blue _star, so it probably has something to do with him.

Hmmm. He ponders that, slurping the rest of the milk out of his bowl. Maybe he was supposed to do something today. Maybe it was tax day - if that's the case, he's really in trouble, because he hasn't even glanced at his checkbook in weeks. Maybe he was supposed to call Mother - no, she called last Friday, said she'd call him back next Wednesday - today - for his birthday -

His _birthday_! The most wonderful day of the year! The day just for him! The forty - um - he takes a second to count on his fingers - forty-second anniversaryof the day he entered this world!

"Shego!" he yelps in joy, jumping straight out of his chair. It topples over behind him and hits the ground. "Today's my _birthday_!"

She doesn't even twitch. "Well, then - Happy B-Day, Doc."

He barely hears her, because he's busy tearing out of the kitchen as fast as his feet can carry him. Back to his room, where he drops to his knees and rummages around under the bed until he finds a paper party hat and one of those blowy-things with ribbons on the end. He sticks the hat on his head, ties the strings under his chin, and plops the blower in his mouth.

There! Now he's ready for his big surprise party!

"Shego, Shego, Shego!" he cries, darting back into the kitchen. "It's my _birthday_!"

Shego raises an eyebrow at him, dressed in his party hat and stripy dark-blue pajamas and his bunny slippers and the fluffy socks with the frogs on them. "Okaaaaaaaaay. . . I heard you the first time, Birthday Boy."

Oooh, she's good. She thinks her bored behavior will throw him off from the fact that she's throwing him a surprise party. He rocks up on his toes, feeling ready to leap through the ceiling. "My birthday, my birthday," he sing-songs happily. "Today is my birthday!"

"Hoo-boy." Shego twists up her mouth. "He's excited."

Du-_uh_, he's excited. It's only his birthday, after all. "Of course I'm excited!" he hollers for the world to hear. "It's marvelicious!" He punctuates this sentence by blowing his blower in Shego's face.

She yanks it away from him and shoves it into her pocket. He feels his ears droop down. That's _his _blower. "Drakken. Stop. Please. Before you blow a blood vessel."

He can't stand it any longer. The excitement is too much. "Okay, so -" he hears his voice squeal up in glee - "when's my party?"

Shego looks at him blankly. She really _is _good. "What party?"

"You know." He giggles. "The one. . . that's a surprise." He winks at her so she'll know he's caught on.

But Shego's breath heaves out in one big sigh, and his ponytail goes down to match his ears. "Dr. D. - there's no surprise party this year, either."

Anger tightens his chest. "But, Shego!" He slams his foot down as hard as he can, hoping it'll dry up the hot tears in his eyes. "You never throw me a surprise party! _Ever_!"

"Doy." Shego shakes her head, looking completely bored. How can she be bored on his birthday? "I thought this was the year you would finally catch on."

"Noooooooo," he wails. "I thought this was the year _you_ would finally catch on!" He folds his arms over his chest and gives her his most ferocious glare, so she'll know she's displeased her boss.

"So, make yourself a cake or something," Shego says, picking up her nail file. "Get some confetti and throw it all over the henchmen." She waves her hands in the air and starts singing circus music. "Doo-doo-doo-doo-doo."

No. This is so totally unfair. "I can't bake my own birthday cake, Shego," he snaps. "That's just _wrong_."

"Well - I don't do cakes." Shego stabs a finger at him, so hard he backs up a little. "I don't bake 'em, and I don't jump out of 'em!"

He wrinkles his nose. Why would anyone ruin a perfectly good cake by jumping out of it? "Well, I can't bake. Period," he retorts.

His sidekick snorts. "Have you even tried?"

"Have _you_?" he shoots back. Ha. Got her.

But Shego nods. "Yeah. Not pretty. Trust me. And besides -" she smirks at him - "I asked you first."

He closes his eyes, breathes out through his nose, and tries to calm down enough to remember. Yes. He has. Peanut butter cookies. For the henchmen. But he was good then. His chest goes into a strange little knot that he tries to ignore.

"I've heard chemists are good cooks," Shego continues. "Just try not to burn down the lair, 'kay?" She pats his shoulder all condescendingly.

He glares at her. "You're really irking me, Shego."

"Sorry." She shrugs, but she doesn't look sorry at all. "But you're very irkable."

The knot gets tighter. "That's not even a word!" he protests.

"So what?" Shego responds. "Neither is 'marvelicious'."

He has no response for that. So he just yells, "You forgot my birthday!" in his most accusing voice.

Shego rolls her eyes. "Dr. D, _you _forgot your birthday."

He has no response for that, either.

Finally, they compromise - which means Shego gives in because she's tired of hearing him whine, or so she says. They'll go get something from the bakery tonight. Split the cost. At first he argued that she should pay the whole thing because it was _his _birthday, but she lit up her hands, and he. . . uh. . . realized that she was right. Then she told him to go get dressed.

He grins at himself in his bedroom mirror as he wriggles his arms into the sleeves of his lab coat. His eyes, as he watches in disbelief, go into tiny wrinkles at the corners. Old-people wrinkles that he's never seen there before. The moisture drains out of his mouth.

__

No - I must be seeing things.

He leans in closer and smiles bigger, which isn't easy to do because his lips are suddenly trembling. It's hard to tell, because his eyes are bunching all up, but - yeah, they're definitely creasing at the sides.

He flings himself straight against the mirror in horror. "Shego!" he hollers. "Come quick!"

Shego bursts straight into his bedroom, hands glowing. "What is it?" she demands.

"Shego," he bawls out frantically. "I've got crinkles!" He points to his eyes, fingers shaky.

That's evidently not the answer she wanted, because she tucks in her lips and moans quietly and looks at him like he's a passing cockroach. "Doc," she finally says, voice scarier in its calmness, "that does not merit above a 5.8 on the Drakter scale."

Right. Anything above that is reserved for Kim Possible invading or any kind of spontaneous combustion. He hangs in his head in shame for a minute before remembering what horrible crisis made him yell for her help in the first place.

"But - but - but - but." Oooohhh, man, the words aren't coming. "But - Shego - I've got wrinkles - around my eyes - like an _old person_! What are those things called - pigeon toes?"

Shego's lips twitch. "Crow's-feet."

"Crow's-feet!" he wails in agony. It even _sounds _old.

"Laugh lines," Shego supplies.

"I'm not laughing!" he snaps.

Shego does. "Calm down, calm down. How old are you, anyway?"

He opens his trembly lips long enough to say, "Forty-two." Then he clamps them shut again.

"Hmmmm." Shego rubs her chin. "So that would have made you - what, thirty-eight when you first hired me?"

He does the math in his head and nods. Yeah, that's right.

"See, first time I saw you, I would have thought you were twenty-five, easy." Shego snaps her fingers, like she's clicking away his crow's-feet.

A little glow of hope starts in his chest. "Really?" He swipes his nose on his sleeve before it can start to run. "You're not just saying that to make me feel better?"

She rolls her eyes. "Do I _ever _do that, Dr. D?"

No. She doesn't. "But - the - the - crow-things -" he starts to stutter.

"You can barely even see 'em," Shego says with a wave of her hand. She sounds annoyed. "You don't look old, if that's what you're thinking."

He almost dares to believe her, but one glance at the mirror wipes it away. The bags under his eyes are almost touching his nose, and he's never noticed how much his cheekbones jut out. "Yes, I do."

"Hurrrrrrrrrrgh!" Shego flings her hands in the air. "Fine. I'll prove it to you. Come with me."

He follows her down the hall, bewildered. How does she plan to "prove" that he doesn't look like a tired old man? And why did that noise she just made sound so very familiar?

Most people don't get cards from Germany on their birthdays. Oh, to be most people.

"To Drakken," it reads in Dementor's way-too-familiar handwriting, square like the rest of him.

_Happy Birthday, you old geezer! Need money for a new hip or a hearing aid? I WROTE THIS REALLY BIG SO YOU CAN READ IT!_

He drops the card on the table, half-expecting it to explode and wishing it would. "I'm gonna be sick," he mutters to no one in particular.

Shego takes a sudden interest in counting backward from a hundred. Once she gets to seventy-five, she stops and looks him straight in the eyes. "Look, Dr. Freak-Out, Dementor's just trying to - to irk you." Her lips twitch, but only a little bit. "He's probably about the same age as you."

She's right again. "Right!" he cries, another wonderful idea occurring to him. "I think I'll save this - and send it back to him on _his _birthday!" He makes a mental note to find out when Dementor's birthday is.

His spirit restored, he climbs on top of a chair and pushes the button to activate the lair's intercom. "Attention, all henchmen!" he booms. "Today I, Dr. Drakken, am having a birthday! If you have any presents, now is the time to wrap them! And if you don't have any presents -" he pauses and chuckles nastily - "I suggest you go get some! **Now!**"

He parks the hovercraft in front of Casey's - he got to drive because it's his birthday - crawls across its nose, and hops off to the ground. There's something very satisfying about that. "So - why are we here?" he asks Shego.

She actually winks. "You'll see. Go inside."

He does, a little bell over the door announcing his presence. He likes Casey's. Nice little store. He'd like to conquer it someday - he can see it now, "Drakkcasey's," his picture on the front of the store - oooh! Toys!

He grabs the shiniest one, a bright-green toy airplane with a pilot who almost looks alive sitting in the cockpit. It feels sturdy in his hands, the way all toys should. He brings one hand up to his mouth and makes a staticky noise.

"Pilot to tower, pilot to tower. We've been hit! We're going down! Mayday! !" He thrusts the plane down, adding sound effects of explosions and screams and wind whooshing by -

Until Shego grabs his hand and ruins his fun. "Concentrate, okay, Charles Lindberg?"

Lindberg must have been a famous mad scientist. Reluctantly, he puts the airplane back on the shelf. "Okay," he mumbles. "On what?"

Shego's eyes gleam trouble. "Try to buy a six-pack."

He nods. No problem-o.

"And - Drakken -" she takes his arm again. "Act casual."

"O-_kay_," he repeats, much slower and hipper. He flicks his index finger at her, wiggles half the eyebrow, and saunters off with complete casualty.

Behind him, he hears his partner-in-crime moan. "Not that casual," she mutters.

He hefts the biggest six-pack of Diet Cola he can find and actually manages to balance it on top of his arm to show off his muscles, the way the guys on TV do. He can feel his ego getting bigger as he heads straight toward the counter -

Until Shego grabs his hand. Again. "Yeah," she says in a voice that's one big groan. "I didn't mean a six-pack of _soda_."

His tummy sinks to his ankles. "What _did _you mean?" he asks, even though he's pretty sure he already knows.

Shego jabs a finger in the direction of the freezers. "Beer, Your Royal Cluelessness."

_Oooh. _He licks his lips, which have suddenly gone dry. "Shego - "

She yanks the Diet Cola away from him with very little effort. "Just trust me, okay?"

He nods. He trusts her. One glance at the picture on the six-pack of beer, though, and he remembers the way it tastes. Nasty and hot and bitter, even though the bottle on the cover is frozen over with ice. He feels like _he _is, too.

This six-pack feels a lot heavier than the soda, and he's barely able to lug it to the counter. Why is Shego asking him to do this? What little he's ever had of this stuff, he hates. She sniffs his glass at every villains' convention to make sure no one spiked the punch, for Pete's sake!

He glances back at the package. "Ice Cold," it says. Huh. He wonders if that means this stuff doesn't burn going down.

Someone chuckles right above him. He looks up to see the lady behind the counter half-smiling at him. "Honey, as far I know, it _all _burns," she says.

Heh-heh. He twiddles his fingers nervously. Must have said that out loud. That, or she's a mind reader.

"Can I see some ID, please?" Counter Lady asks.

"Huh?" he asks out of sheer confusion.

She jerks her thumb back toward a sign hanging over the cash register. IF YOU LOOK UNDER FORTY, WE CARD YOU, it says.

He nearly squeals out loud. Good ol' Shego.

"So -" the lady leans over the counter, looking bored. "Can I see your driver's license, please?"

He gives her his biggest grin. "I don't have one. And - ya know what?" With great effort, he manages to pull the six-pack off the counter, where it hits the ground with a thud. "I don't want this stuff, anyway."

Counter Lady's forehead wrinkles. "Sir -"

"Don't worry! I'll buy something!" he reassures her. In three skips, he's next to the donuts - yay, donuts - and selects a chocolate-batter-chocolate-frosted-rainbow-sprinkled one and a cream-filled one. He spots a muffin in the rack, but it's blueberry. He likes blueberry, don't get him wrong, but every time he buys something blueberry-flavored, people make jokes. Mean ones that he's sick of.

He slides his donut sack across the counter toward the register lady. "And one big cup of hot cocoa m -" He coughs and pounds on his chest and curses his tongue for almost saying that. "Hot chocolate."

Counter Lady rings it up and hands him the hot chocolate and his donuts. Then she actually smiles at him. He beams back at her, because he loves being smiled at. "It's my birthday," he explains, pointing to the party hat on his head.

"Ah." Her eyes get all soft. "How old are you?"

"Forty-two." He puffs out his chest and grins bigger and tries not to wrinkle.

To his surprise, the lady bursts out laughing. "Very funny," she chuckles. "Happy birthday."

He stops himself from saying, "Happy birthday to you, too," just in time.

He skips back out to the hovercraft in the cool evening air, twirling his donut bag and being extra-careful not to splash hot chocolate on himself. Something about that conversation he just had makes him want to swing his arms.

Shego gives him that little smirk of hers once he's back in the driver's seat. "So. . .?" she asks, as if she doesn't already know exactly what happened.

"I can't," he chirps.

"Didn't think so." Shego rearranges herself, folding one leg over the other. "And I wouldn't have let you have it anyway, Mr. Lightweight."

He sticks out his tongue at her and pulls the chocolate-chocolate-sprinkled donut out of the sack. "Happy birthday to me!" he cries happily before shoving most of it into his mouth. Ohhhhhhhh, yeah. Chocolate. Chocolate. Sprinkles.

"Mmmmmmmm," he grunts, licking his lips to make sure not one crumb goes to waste. "That's what _I'm _talkin' about!"

Shego raises an eyebrow at him. "I don't suppose you're going to ask if I want one."

"Oh." He feels like he's been scolded somehow, so he holds out the bag. "You want one?"

She curls her lip. "No."

That makes no sense. "Fine." He sticks out his tongue again, covered with sprinkles now. "More for me."

So he eats both donuts and drinks the whole cup of hot chocolate and it finally starts to feel like a good birthday. "Remind me to stop by the video store," he says. "I need to return this DVD I rented."

Shego squints at the DVD case. "Does your mommy know you've been watching R-rated movies?"

He stiffens. "She doesn't need to know, Shego!" He doesn't add that he only rented it because it was popular - and he fast-forwarded through the bloody parts - but he did learn a lot of interesting new words.

"Anyway, this DVD is not being returned unscarred." An evil chuckle starts deep in his throat.

"Unscathed," Shego corrects dryly.

"Whatever." The chuckle dies. "Shego, the point is - at the climax, when the killer finally reveals his identity - I - I - I -" He can't stop himself from dissolving into giggles.

"You what?" Shego asks.

He takes a deep breath and manages to blurt out, "I recorded over it! It's myself - singing 'The Star-Spangled Banner'!" He grins at her expectantly, waiting for her to acknowledge how _bad _of him that was.

She just rolls her eyes and smirks again. Or sneers. It's hard to tell with Shego. "Yeah, they say Napoleon used to do the same thing."

"Don't get cute, Shego." He gives her a look of utmost scorn. "I know they didn't have DVD players in Napoleon's time."

While she sits in silence, stunned by his genius, he keeps going. "And after that, we can go home and have cake!"

"_Cake_?" Shego's eyebrows tie themselves into a knot. "Dr. D, you just had two donuts!"

"So what?" He pats his stomach, which isn't even close to full. "There's always room for dessert!"

"Whoo." Shego plops down into the kitchen chair next to his and surveys the room. "I think you and the henchmen have finally achieved your lifelong goal of trashing the entire lair."

"Yeah," he mutters, leafing through his new coloring book. "It's kind of a mess."

Shego props her hands on her hips. "Just don't expect me to clean it up. I'm not the maid."

"I can't." He leans his head back in his chair and stares at the ceiling with blurry eyes. "It's my birthday and I'm not cleaning it up."

"Whatever." Shego starts digging around in her pocket. "But if this place is still a wreck tomorrow, it's your fault."

"I can handle it." He grins drowsily. "I'm a bachelor. _And _an evil genius."

"And we're all so proud of you," Shego answers, voice oozing. "Here." She tosses a little package to him.

He catches it and holds it for a minute, heart pounding in his ears. She got him a present!

If he had a little more patience, he'd savor this moment for a long time. But he doesn't, so he rips the package open and stares down at his new bright-green toy airplane.

"Shego!" He hugs his present to his chest. "Thank you!"

"You're welcome." She rolls her eyes. "Swiped it from Casey's while you were tryin' to buy the booze. I'm going home. Feliz Cumpleanos. Buenos noches."

What does Bueno Nacho have to do with anything? Shego's out the door before he can ask.

Oh, well. It doesn't really matter. He manages to drag his stuffed, exhausted self to his bedroom and into his pajamas and out of his contacts and then back into the living room because his bedroom seems awfully big and dark after such a noisy, bright party. He curls up into a little ball on the couch, hugs one of the pillows to his chest, and, hmm?

The answering machine's flashing. He feels himself perk up. Someone called him! Someone remembered his birthday!

He pushes the button and does a little happy dance while the machine announces in its boring voice that someone called him at five o'clock PM on Wednesday and then beeps. The voice that follows nearly shatters his eardrums.

"Drewbie!"

Oh boy. It's Mother.

"How _are_ you, sweetums? I'm sorry I didn't get to come over there today - my car's been having trouble - but I hope you're having a wonderful birthday! Your present's in the mail, baby boy."

Oh-double-boy. He's definitely going to have to delete that before Shego comes back tomorrow. And the present? Probably a sweater or something.

Still, as his mother breaks into a loud, off-key rendition of "Happy Birthday," he finds himself smiling. It's good to know _someone _remembered him.

NOTE:

I snatched a few lines from canon in this one. You probably recognize them, but just in case:

*"You're very irkable" - from _Number One_

_*_"I don't do cakes -" from _The Big Job _


	39. Are You Challenging Me?

**Are You Challenging Me?**

He cannot _believe _what he just heard. But he's not going to let it go. Not this time.

He lowers his voice to its most threatening level. "Was that a _challenge_?"

Shego, on the other hand, seems completely calm, even bored - as usual, which makes him even madder. "Well, what if it was? What if I actually was lame enough to issue that kind of challenge?"

He straightens himself up to his full (admittedly-less-than-impressive-but-still-taller-than-her-and-that's-all-that-matters-right-now) height and slits his eyes at his sidekick. "No, Shego," he snarls. "You've mocked me for many things over the years, but this - this I will not tolerate!" Anger cracks his voice, and he lets it. Let her see how upset she's made him. "I will not let this go!"

Shego's eyes actually widen in concern. "Look, Dr. D.," she says, holding out her hands, palms up. "Don't you think you've overreacting? Just a little?"

Ohhhhhhhh no, he's not. "Get over here, Shego," he snaps. He jabs a finger at the floor directly in front of him. "We finish this now."

The battle is long. It's brutal. It's unpredictable. For a while, it looked like he was at her mercy, like she might actually get the upper hand. But this is one fight he has to win. One thing he knows Shego can't beat him at.

And, as expected, he emerges triumphant.

"Ha!" he cries victoriously, jutting his chin in Shego's direction. "I told you so! None shall dare to challenge Dr. Drakken again!"

Shego rolls her eyes, obviously attempting to hide her humiliationat having had the floor so utterly _wiped _with her. "Yeah, whatever. I told _you _it was incredibly lame, but you had to go and prove yourself - "

He cut her off before she can do any damage to his ego, which is just starting to feel nice and puffed-up again. "Candy Land champion of the world!" he brags, sticking one foot right up on top of the table, like it's a mighty beast he brought down.

"That'll strike fear into the hearts of mankind," Shego mutters. He feels himself sag. In a supervillain's moment of great victory, their sidekicks should be supporting them and reaffirming their wonderfulness. It's practically a _law_.

"Can't you show a little more enthusiasm?" he demands. It's very lonely being excited all by himself.

Shego flings her hands into the air. "Ra. Ra. Sis boom ba."

He grins from ear to ear. There, that's more like it. "I get to pick the next game since I won!" he yells gleefully, tripping over his own feet as he skids out of the room toward the game closet.

The henchmen, eager to help (he likes that about them), all gather up armfuls of board games and follow him back to the living room. He plunks the games down near the table, perches on the edge of his Thinking Chair, and gives Shego another ha-ha-I-won grin.

In response, she rolls her eyes and rubs her temples. "Dr. D, no matter how many times you win at Risk, you will not actually have dominated the world."

He glares at her over the top of Chutes & Ladders. "You're using tearing-down words, Shego." He wags his finger at her, glad to be scolding _her _for once. "And tearing-down words are not allowed on Family Game Night."

Shego gives a full-out groan and slumps down in her chair. "I _hate _being snowed in with you guys."


	40. Mirror

How can I possibly have over ninety reviews? *faints* Thanks, everyone!

COPYRIGHT NOTICE: If I owned KP, it would still air on Disney Channel. 'Nuff said.

**Mirror**

Snap. He forgot to get a towel again. Shego'll be mad at him if he drips all over the floor.

So he stands as small as he can on one tile, arms pressed to his sides, and shakes himself all over. There. That should get the worst of the water off.

He jumps over a few puddles on the floor - step on a crack and you'll fall and break your back - 'till he gets to the cabinet under the sink. He flings it open, selects the biggest, fluffiest towel, and wipes his drippy-wet face on it.

Ahhh. That feels _good_.

A few more sweeps and the rest of him's mostly dried off, too - except his hair, that'll take awhile. He walks over to the crumpled pile in the corner and starts rummaging through it - lab coat, _Villains _magazine, contact case - until he finds his special blue rubber band, which he proceeds to pull back his hair with. There.

He rinses his contacts before he puts them in, because he read in one of those waiting room magazines that contact cases often have more germs than toilet seats. Very disgusting. He doesn't want to be sticking any more bacteria into his eyes than necessary.

Then he grabs the _Villains _magazine - the latest issue, which he finally got away from Shego - and growls under his breath as he studies the cover. A guy on the cover is wearing an itty-bitty bathing suit, coming out of a swimming pool holding a towel, and even though _he's _drippy-wet, it looks much more. . . controlled on him. Not as messy.

"Today's Hunky Villain," reads the cover. "Just because you're a villain doesn't mean you have to be ugly."

That awful itch starts in his chest. It only gets worse once he opens the magazine and stares at the big red letters that seem designed to jump off the page and smack him in the face. "The traditional ugly villain is out. No more do villains have to rely on shaved heads and scars to make them seem tough."

His fingers start bumping around under his left eye before he can stop them.

"Today, villains have realized you can be sufficientlymenacing without sacrificing style and good looks." It doesn't add, _Neither one of which you have, Drakken_, but it might as well. That's what Hench would say if he were here.

Great. Now his scar and his skin and everything else weird about him don't make him look scary. Now he's just ugly, plain and simple.

Great. Now his scar and his skin and everything else weird about him don't make him look scary. Now he's just ugly, plain and simple.

He slaps the magazine closed and glares at the guy on the cover. Perfectly tan, like that Senior kid, with muscles bulging over his swimsuit for everyone to stare at. Hmmm. He used to have some muscles before prison. Not a lot, and not the bulgy kind, but some.

He takes a step back and puffs out his chest, revealing his. . . ribs. Not too bad-looking, for ribs, but definitely not muscles. Forget having abs and biceps and pecs; he barely has _shoulders _anymore.

Sighing, he runs his hand down over the length of his stomach. At least the swelling's gone down - he shudders; after yesterday, he never wants to see another cupcake again. "Flabby, out-of-shape villains are _never _in style," Jack Hench has said.

He glares back down at the cover dude, trying to figure out what else makes a villain "stylish and good-looking." The guy has bigger hands and feet than him - but then, who doesn't? - and smaller ears - but then, who doesn't? - and a smile that only goes up on one side of his face. He's not good at that, but it definitely makes Cover Guy seem more villainous.

He tries to make that face in the mirror and looks like a chicken who just saw Bigfoot. Nope. That definitely doesn't work for him.

And, of course, he's blue. There's nothing that can be done about that, and really, it's not too bad. Blue's a nice color - much better than turning himself puce or something. (He's not exactly sure what color puce is, but it's one letter off from "puke," so it can't be too pretty.)

But his chest keeps itching and squirming until he finally picks his towel back up and folds himself up in it. There. Now the only bit of blueness peeking out is his face.

Cover Dude's face is square, shaped like his coffee table, and his jaw looks. . . hard. Firm. His own face is long and ovalish, like someone stretched it out by the . . . the something. He turns sideways, squints, and makes his decision. Definitely by the chin.

Great. He groans to himself as he realizes exactly what he's seeing. He has plenty of chin, and plenty of other assorted weird angles, but no firm jaw. It's soft and rounded and babyish.

Who gives someone a roundy face and then tops it with cheekbones that could cut glass? God must have been sleep-deprived when he was designing him.

The picture isn't big enough for him to see much of Cover Guy's eyes, not even what color they are. His hair is black - like his - and looks like someone cemented it to his head. Not a single fiber is out of place, even though he's supposedly just been swimming.

Back to the mirror. His hair is - dark. To his shoulders. Smooth now that it's wet, but he knows as soon as it starts to dry, it'll go all shaggy and spiky again. His eyes are - brown. Almost black. Kind of big. Raccoon circles around them.

Even their _noses _don't match. He's not sure exactly what Cover Dude's nose looks like - just a normal nose, he guesses. But his is little and it curls all over itself like a tiny cinnamon roll.

There's not really much to the rest of his face. An eyebrow and those stick-out ears. A mouth, which is just your basic oral cavity that hopefully doesn't _have _any cavities. Two skinny little lips and - okay, so their teeth sorta look the same. He brushes twice a day, except on days when he forgets, so he's got nice white teeth. Straight because of the braces. But his are bigger than the guy's on the cover, and he seems to have more of them.

_Is it possible for someone to have too many teeth?_ He ponders that, rubbing his upper lip, and actually feels some fuzziness on it. Must be time to shave again. Or he could try growing a mustache so Kim Possible doesn't recognize him and he can carry out his latest evil scheme - the Volcano-inator - no, it might need a better name - because "Volcano-inator" sounds kind of lame - how about "The Tremendous Volcano Machine of Evil and Destruction"?

He blinks at his reflection, which blinks back. How did he get from mustaches to volcanoes? Anyway, the mustache idea probably won't work. It'd look weird on his face, and besides, it would take him, like, three weeks to even get a few more dots of fuzz. . .

He grunts down at his arms and legs, which barely have any more hair than that strange pink thing that follows the buffoon around. That doesn't seem natural for a man - maybe he did that to himself in the lab when he turned himself blue only he didn't notice because he was too busy. . . uh. . . reacting to his skin change. No, wait. . . he's always been like that. He flinches at the memories of middle school.

Well, maybe it's a freak genetic thing. Maybe his father had it.

He closes his eyes and leans his head against the mirror's cold glass, trying to remember what his dad looked like. All he gets is a fuzzy picture - a man, tall, with black hair and a blurry face he can't bring into focus no matter how hard he tries.

Yeah. He sort of remembers now. Kind of a big nose. A mustache - no, wait, that was Eddy's dad. Of course, their dads were brothers, so maybe his dad looked like that, too. . .

He smears a hand across his burning eyes. Maybe that stirs up a memory somewhere, because he suddenly remembers his dad being tan like the dude on the magazine cover. He didn't burn stepping out into sunny weather just like _that_ - he mentally snaps his fingers - the way him and Mother do. . .

His eyes pop open for a second.

_Him and Mother._ He slams his eyes shut again to picture his mom.

Pale skin. Glasses. Stick-out ears. Nose like a cinnamon roll. Tiny hands and little feet. Long oval face - rounder than his, probably because she's never been in prison. Even kind of a big chin for a lady.

He opens his eyes and finds his smile again and even manages to high-five his reflection in the mirror. He may not look like Cover Dude, but now he knows he's not ugly, because he looks like his mother. And his mother is the most beautiful woman on the face of the earth.


	41. Broken Pieces

I own a miniature Drakken hanging from a string (it's a cell phone charm). Unfortunately, this does not constitute owning Dr. Drakken.

**Broken Pieces**

__

Tips for not getting arrested (this time):

Don't tell anyone your a supervillian unless they ask. Maybe not even then.

Don't shoplift ANYTHING - at least nothing bigger than a Kit-Kat bar.

Leave all Doomsday devices at home. Even the small ones.

Try not to laugh manaciacally in the men's restroom.

Pick up more dental floss. This has nothing to do with getting arrested, I just remembrerd we're out. And when I say "we," I mean "me."

He rubs his chin for a minute in thought, then turns the pencil over. Once "me" is erased, he replaces it with, "I, Dr. Drakken." Much more impressive.

__

WEAR YOUR BIO-HAZZARD SUIT AT ALL TIMES!

The pencil lead snaps off and falls to the bottom of the hovercraft as he puts the final exclamation point on that sentence. Above all else, _that's _the one he needs to remember. He's fixed the visor that goes over his face so that he can see out, but no one else can see in.

No, with any luck the carpet cleaner will work and he won't have to walk around in his biohazard suit anymore. With any luck, no one except his mother will ever even know this happened.

Correction. With any _good _luck, no one will ever know. He swings himself over the side of the hovercraft and grunts as his feet slap against the blacktop of Smarty Mart's parking lot. He doesn't have a lot of good luck - after all, he hasn't dominated the world yet - but, hopefully, that's about to change.

The ad for the carpet cleaner gave him the first little spark of hope in his chest. "Removes stains from any surface," the smiling lady had said, spraying the stuff on a stain of something on her rug. Something blue, which is a good omen.

And, hey, skin is a surface, right? This should work. After all, it had the Good Housekeeping seal and everything.

He flings himself in front of the automatic doors. "Open up, lowly doors!" he barks in his best villain-voice. "Your ruler, Dr. Drakken, commands it!"

_Whoosh._ The doors slide open, obeying him. Okay, so he knows it's just their sensors being activated, but it feels good, anyway, better than anything's felt since the lab accident.

The sparkly-clean floors dazzle his eyes and dizzy his brain, and he grabs onto the wall, closing his eyes to keep them from darting in all directions. This place is overwhelming, and he can't let himself be overwhelmed.

_Focus,_ he reminds himself as he opens his eyes and grabs one of their little baskets. He's here for carpet cleaner and dental floss. Carpet cleaner and dental floss. Carpet cleaner and -

The first aisle he can see reads, "Candy." His legs start moving toward it, drawn by some invisible magnet in his stomach.

No, no, no. He jerks his eyes away and they land on a sign that says, "Toiletries." Huh. He twists up his mouth to consider that. He's never seen anyone sell a toilet before. Are they even allowed to do that in the middle of a store? Could come in handy if you _really _needed to go.

Curiosity gets the best of him, and he wanders down the Toiletry aisle, which, to his disappointment, does not sell toilets. Just toothpaste and deodorant and stuff. He _does _find some dental floss, which he stuffs into the basket.

"Uh, sir?"

He whirls around, his left elbow smacking into a display of wrinkle cream and sending the whole thing to the floor. Oops.

Ooh boy. Time to be charming. He grins. "Yes?" he asks the saleswoman standing in front of him, who looks a lot less friendly than she did before he knocked over the wrinkle gunk.

"Can I help you with something?" she asks through her teeth. He's not sure if that means, _Can I help you FIND something? _or _Can I help you with being such a klutz?_

He doesn't let himself drop his gaze. _Remember, Drakken_, he tells himself sternly, _you'll be her ruler someday._ "Errr, yes, as a matter of fact." If he doesn't twiddle his fingers, his heart will thump itself right out of his chest, he's sure. "Can you help me find the. . . carpet cleaner?"

The saleswoman takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. That's supposed to help you manage your anger, though it never helps him much. "Aisle Twenty-Two," she says in a voice that makes him suspect she's really a robot.

He cranes his neck around the corner to see if he can spot this Aisle Twenty-Two, and winds up knocking over several tubes of sunscreen. Will he ever need that again? Can you sunburn if you're blue?

His stomach gets that hot, panicky feeling again, and his words start coming faster. "I'm. . . I'm looking for a specific _kind _of carpet cleaner," he explains, making sure his voice sounds sufficientlyurgent. "What's the strongest stuff you got?"

The robotic saleswoman scowls at the sunscreen tubes on the floor and then smiles at him like he finally asked the right question. "That would be the Ultra Hooray," she answers.

What a stupid name. Oh, well, if it helps get this - this - _stuff _off his skin, he'll feel like Ulta Hooraying.

With that thought in mind, he skips off toward Aisle Twenty-Two, leaving the scowly salesrobot picking up sunscreen. Serves her right for not respecting the world's future overlord.

"Ultra Hooray Super-Strength Revolutionary Carpet Cleaner," the bottle says. _Revolutionary._ He should know what that means, but the word's so long it's hard to get all the letters to line up in the right order in his brain. Maybe it has something to do with fighting - because of the Revolutionary War and everything -

Oh, well. He'll look it up in the dictionary when he gets home. Words may not be his strong point, but he likes to learn new ones.

He tucks the Ultra Hooray into the basket with the dental floss, stops back in Aisle Twelve for a package of Oreos, and heads to the check-out counter - and, wouldn't you know it? Some jerk walks into the express lane with his cart stacked all the way to the top with what can_not_ be ten items or less. Can he not _count_?

"Uh, excuse me," he hisses, jabbing the man hard in the back. "Ten items or less. Hel-_lo_?" He lets his voice go up at the end of the sentence, so the man will know the heinousness of the crime he just committed.

The man sneers at him, making his body go hot. "Chill, buddy," he snaps in a very un-buddy-ish tone. "It won't take me long."

"Nooooo! You cut! And you're not obeying the store rules!" He catches his voice creeping up farther than he wants it to, so he pushes it back down and narrows his eyes. "When I take over the world - people like you will be the first to go."

The guy's eyes widen with something that looks kind of like fear. Almost, but not quite. Different enough that it makes his chest feel like someone put something heavy on it and pushed.

And so does the stupid cashier who lets the express-lane-rule-violator through and rings up his items and then yaks and yaks and yaks and yaks until he's sure he's going to explode. By the time she gets to him, he's chewing on the front of his biohazard suit in frustration.

"Nice suit," she says, and he can't tell if she means it or not. "But Halloween's over."

His mouth suddenly feels dry, and he swallows hard. "Uh - it can live in your heart all year 'round."

The cashier giggles and rings up the Ultra Hooray, reminding him of something. "Does this stuff - does it hurt your skin if it comes in contact with it?"

"Nah." She shakes her head, and her earrings sway. He watches them, fascinated. "No rashes, no discoloration, nothing. There might be a little discomfort if you spill it on an open wound -"

He interrupts, because that's all he needed to know. "Okay, thanks."

_No discoloration._ If only she knew.

The cashier finishes ringing up his Oreos and dental floss and bags them and tells him to have a nice day. He just grunts at her because she let a line-cutter go in front of him and didn't fix it. If he were Mr. Smarty Mart - or whoever runs this place - he'd fire anyone who did that.

And why did his Halloween line make her laugh so hard? Snowman Hank says Christmas can live in your heart all year 'round, so why shouldn't the same thing be true about Halloween?

He's so deep in those thoughts he doesn't even notice the big crack in the sidewalk until his toe gets caught in it and he sprawls head over heels. The next thing he knows, he's lying face-first on the ground, right knee throbbing bad, pride throbbing worse.

Oooh, he can feel something warm trickling down his leg. Must be blood not staying where it belongs.

Frantically, he sits up, yanking the the right leg of his biohazard suit up to examine his knee. He was right - he _is _bleeding. Not a lot, though, just a little.

He spits on his sleeve and rubs it against his knee, over and over again, until finally the bleeding stops and he's left staring at his second layer of skin - his dermis. His _blue _dermis.

He can almost hear his heart grinding to a halt. The deep-down skin that wasn't even exposed that day - it's blue, too. This isn't a stain on the epidermis that'll flake and shed off eventually.

This isn't going away - _ever_.

For a second, he's sure the shriek of terror he hears is his own. But it's not. It's a woman on the sidewalk in front of Smarty Mart who drops her purse and gapes at him like he's a freak of nature, because he is.

_Blue Drew. Smurf Buy. Giant Blueberry Muffin. _He can imagine the names now, and he feels horrible.

He gets up, grabs his bag (because he still wants Oreos) and runs back to the hovercraft as fast as his (blue) legs can carry him. The keys, he remembers in anger, are in the pocket of his lab coat - _under _his biohazard suit, which he has to take off right there in the parking lot.

When he takes off the helmet, his eyes meet the woman's. Her eyes are wide with something that's not quite fear and not quite disgust. He knows he doesn't look a thing like an evil conqueror, with his hair all messed up and his eyes burning and his blue face and neck revealed to the world.

Then she turns and bolts, faster than he thought anyone could go without some kind of retro-rocket attached to their rear. The mad scientist in him notes that, but the person in him just hurts.

He flops back into his Thinking Chair and groans from deep inside. So far, this has been an Ultra Un-Hooray day.

So he screams at the top of his lungs and pounds his fists into the Thinking Chair as hard as he can and grunts and kicks his feet and rips at his hair until he actually pulls out a few strands. It doesn't help, though, except to make him feel limp and exhausted.

He shudders in a breath - _hic _- and glances over at what used to be a Doomsday device over in the corner. Like everything else in the lab that day, it turned blue. And it's broken into tiny pieces that no one can ever put together again.

He knows just how it feels.

Maybe the Ultra Hooray can still help, though. After all, if you can't trust TV ads, who _can _you trust? _Hic_.

He grabs the dictionary, which feels heavy in his tired arms, and flips through it, fast, until he finds "Revolutionary." It's an adjective, and it means -

Oh boy. It has two different meanings. He scowls. Why does everything have to be so complicated?

The first definition reads, "Of or pertaining to a revolution in government -" _hic _- "tending to, or promoting revolution."

That doesn't make too much sense for a carpet cleaner. He reads the second definition.

"Pertaining to something that portends -" what's that? - "of great change; overthrowing a standard mindset."

Nehhh. And here he thought it might mean something like "removing deep discoloration from skin." _Hic_. And how long has he had the hiccups?

His eyes scan the page and come to a stop on a word he hasn't seen before. _Revulsion. _It sounds evil, so he keeps reading.

"Abhorrence, a sense of loathing, intense aversion, repugnance, repulsion, horror."

Well, that's not much help, considering he doesn't really know what most of those words mean, either. _Hic_. Repulsion is why two objects that have the same polarity kind of bounce off each other -

_Loathing, noun._

_Sense of revulsion, distaste, detestation, extreme hatred or dislike_

_Detestation, noun._

_Hate coupled with disgust; abhorrence _

Oh. He understands now.

It's what he saw in that woman's eyes.

A few hours later, he feels a little better. His hiccups are gone, his stomach has Oreos in it, and he's convinced himself that what that lady had in her eyes wasn't revulsion, which is a cool new word he just learned.

It was - fear. Fear because his face, so blue and so evil, made her realize he must be a villain. And she was running for her life, to get away from his sheer wickedness, the same sheer wickedness that's going to help him conquer this planet.

He sighs and flips on the TV. He sure hopes _Pinky and the Brain _is on. Right now, he could sure use some evil inspiration.

NOTE: _Pinky and the Brain _does not belong to me, either. Sigh. . .


	42. Test

Dr. Drakken belongs to Disney, but this version of little Drew Lipsky is all mine, MUA-HA-HA! *cough*

**Test**

It's the second-to-last day of the semester before Christmas break. That means tomorrow's the Christmas party - Mama's bringing her sugar cookies, which are the _best_ - but today is test day.

First of all, they had a test in English, which he knew he wasn't going to do good on, especially the part about suffixes, which are special sounds that go at the end of a word to mean something. He can never figure out why you're supposed to add "er" and "est" to the ends of some words, but not _all _words.

Then there was a spelling test. He knows he did even worse on that, because Mrs. Clark made a funny face when she picked up his paper. Everyone else in the whole class seems to know when _c _sounds like _k _and when it sounds like _s _except him. Stupid _c_. . . why doesn't it just make up its mind and get its own sound?

He shudders to himself, though, imaging what it's gonna be like at home when he shows those tests to his parents. His dad'll make that face where he pulls his eyebrows almost down to his nose and his mom'll take him and hug him too hard and tell him the teachers just don't appreciate his unconventional smartness and Dad will roll his eyes and say she coddles him and then she'll start crying -

The bottom of his desk suddenly needs to be kicked, so he kicks it, good and hard. Ow. Apparently it needs to be kicked by one of the bigger kids.

Then they had a test in math, which he thinks he actually did okay at - science and math are, like, related, so he's pretty good at both of them, if he has to say so himself. Probably would have done _really _good if he'd been able to finish it. Right when Mrs. Clark passed out the tests, a huge fly - not too many flies around in winter - started buzzing around and around his head and then it landed on his desk, and he spent ten minutes looking at it. Its wings were shiny, and if he looked just right, they had little rainbows on them. How did they _do _that?

By the time Mrs. Clark swatted the fly - which was kind of sad - he only had time to get to half the math problems. "Pay attention, Drew," she told him for about the sixteenth time today. "Concentrate."

Grown-ups tell him that all the time. Don't they see he's _trying_?

Then came P.E. - chin-ups that he can never do - and lunch - PB&J sandwich and Cheez-Its and grapes and a cookie. Because it was so cold, they had recess inside, which was okay with him because he was still really tired from P.E. and no one ever really wants to play with him anyway. He played with Tinker-Toys in the corner of Room 2 that he likes the best, the warmest one with the softest carpet.

Now - it's time for the science test. The one he knows he's going to get a perfect score on. Then Mrs. Clark and Mama and Daddy will all know he's smart. "Do we get counted off for spelling?" he asked earlier.

Mrs. Clark smiled and said, "Not as long as I know what you mean."

Gulp. He scratches the top of his desk with one jagged fingernail to keep from sucking his thumb. _Please be nice, letters. Don't turn yourselves into different words._

The sheet lands on his desk and he snatches up his pencil and writes _Drew Lipsky _at the top before he forgets. There. Now on to the questions -

Oh, no. Oh, no.

____

Don't panic, Drew.

He bites on his lower lip.

_Just skip over the words you don't know. _

Okay. He tries that. _Blip do blip the blip blip blip blip blip water blip blip blip?_

How is he supposed to know what the answer is when he doesn't even know what the _question _is? He shifts his thumb to the other side of his mouth - how did it get in there? - and longs for his mom, far away at home, to be here and tell him what this says.

The sound of Mrs. Clark's high heels gets his attention. She's walking up and down the aisles, checking to make sure no one cheats.

Hey. Mrs. Clark's the teacher. She'll know all these words, right? He could just ask her -

But what if she yells at him for talking during a test, which he's not supposed to do? What if she tells him that if he just _paid attention_ and _concentrated_, he'd understand? What if Carl and his friends laugh at him for not being able to read the big words, like they all can?

That does it. He feels like he's in a corner with no way out, and that makes him angry. This wasn't his fault! He grabs his test, holds it up high, and prepares to rip it right down the middle.

Mrs. Clark appears out of nowhere - must be teacher magic. "Drew," she says, voice stern. "What in the world is the matter?"

Everyone else looks up from their tests. Looks at _him_ until he feels about five inches tall. _We're watching funny little Drew get in trouble again_, their faces say. _Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha. _

"I can't understand this!" he yells. "I can't - can't - I can't read most of the w-w-words." Oh, no. He can't stutter. Not _now_.

He ducks his head and waits to be laughed at or scolded or both, only half noticing when his teacher lifts his test off his desk. And this is his favorite subject, too!

Mrs. Clark makes a weird little "Mmm" sound deep in her throat. "Oh my goodness," she says. "How do they expect you to know these words?"

He glances up, not sure if that's one of those grown-up questions he's not supposed to answer. "I don't know," he sniffles.

"Is anyone else having trouble reading this?" Mrs. Clark asks. "Raise your hands if you think you need someone to read this out loud."

He hardly dares to look, but when he does, almost everyone in the class has their hands raised. Even some of Carl's friends. So the people that made the _tests _are stupid, not him.

"All right, then," Mrs. Clark says, putting his test back on his desk. "I guess I need to give this orally."

Uh-oh. Another word he doesn't know. "Orally?" he asks.

"Out loud," Mrs. Clark answers, walking back to her desk. "The word 'oral' has to do with the mouth."

Ohhhhhhhhh. He's heard that before, and he grabs onto it. "Teacher!" he blurts out. "Is that why my dentist called my mouth my oral cavity?"

From across the room, Julie shoots him a _you-messed-up _look. She raises her hand, and he realizes he forgot to raise his - again. "Mrs. Clark," she says, almost sounding happy to be getting him in trouble, "Drew didn't raise his hand."

__

Drew already knows that. Drew feels bad enough already.

"Julie." Mrs. Clark looks up from her grade book. "Please don't tattle on your classmates." Ha. Serves her right. "And, Drew, please try to remember to raise your hand."

He shrinks back into his seat. "I _try_," he informs her.

"I know, I know." To his surprise, Mrs. Clark smiles. "You just get so excited about learning, it's hard to keep it all in, right?"

He nods, and right now he loves her more than he's ever loved a teacher. Right now she understands. "Yeah."

"And, yes, that's why your dentist called it that," Mrs. Clark finally answers his question.

"That makes sense," he says, glad to finally get an answer. That's been bothering him for awhile. "Cause I don't _have _any cavities - I brush twice a day - and once I tried my dad's mouthwash, only it tasted really bad and it made my mouth smell like -"

Carl groans really loud. "Can we PLEASE just take the test now?"

He wants to stick out his tongue at him, but Mrs. Clark is still looking right at him, so he doesn't dare. He waits until she walks to the front of the room and starts writing something on the chalkboard. Carl makes a fist at him, and he slides back down in his seat. He's just trying to look tough, of course. He wouldn't really _hit _him - would he?

"Question One," Mrs. Clark reads. "Choose whether each form of matter is a solid, liquid, or gas."

That's a completely different kind of gas than the kind you put in your car. He knows that because he's smart.

+100.

He grins at the red numbers on top of his paper, bouncing happily in his seat. He got them all right! Maybe now his dad won't make the eyebrow face.

+100.

He frowns as he turns the paper over. There are only twenty-two questions. Where did the hundred come from?

That's a question for the teacher, so he sticks his hand up in the air and waves it as hard as he can. "Mrs. Clark!" he hisses so she'll know to look at him. "Mrs. Clark!"

She looks over and points at Julie, who asks if she can go to the bathroom. Mrs. Clark says yes, and Julie gets the pass - the pink one, for the girls - and skips off, and then she calls on Fred, who asks if he can go to the water fountain.

Why isn't she calling on him? He sticks his hand up even higher and makes a little grunty noise because his arm is starting to hurt. "MMMMMMMMMM!" he whimpers. "MMMMMMMMMMM!"

After what seems like five hours, the teacher looks at him. "Yes, Drew?"

Finally. He drops his hand onto his desk and feels it throb - his hand, not his desk. "Uh, it says +100 at the top of my paper, but there aren't a hundred problems."

Mrs. Clark smiles like he just said something really cool. "That's one hundred _percent_. Do you remember what that means from math class?"

He _does_! "Everything," he announces proudly.

"So, if you got one hundred percent of the problems right -" Mrs. Clark doesn't finish, but that's okay, because he knows the answer and he can't wait to show her he understands.

"I got 'em _all _right!" he yells in excitement.

Her smile gets even bigger, and he loves it. He can almost see the award now:

__

DREW LIPSKY - WORLD'S GREATEST SCIENTIST!

Mrs. Clark reads to the class for a little while after that, from some book about a girl named Ramona. He puts his head down on his desk and closes his eyes and enjoys it. He really likes being read to.

After that, they have a test in history - which goes fine - and after _that_, it's finally time to go home. Outside it's so cold he's shivering, even with the flannel underwear Mama made him wear today.

"You got them _all _right," Carl says in a girl-voice (a pretty bad one, too), fluttering his eyelashes, even though he's _never _seen Mrs. Clark flutter hers. "You smart little pooky-poo."

Forgetting the fist Carl held up in science class today, he snaps, "Shut your oral cavity, Carl."

He tells Mama the bloody nose was from the cold.


	43. Drink

Kim Possible and all related characters belong to some Walt Disney company.

**Drink**

HenchCo's annual villains' conventions may have their issues, but she can say this for them: She gets to talk to people who aren't Dr. D.

Right now, Drakken is yakkin' away to anyone within twenty feet of him. Even from all the way across the room, she can hear him ranting about his latest (failed) evil scheme, something to do with redirecting the sun's rays and yada-yada-yada. All he has to show for _that _plan is the most awful sunburn she's ever seen and a smattering of freckles across his nose that makes him seem even more like a ten-year-old than he already did.

She feels kinda sorry for whoever he's blabbing to, but - hey. At least he's not _her _problem anymore.

Yeah, now she might actually get to talk to someone sane. Or mature. Preferably both.

A sign in one corner reads, "Evil Manicure. Only One Dollar."

She snorts under her breath. Knowing Hench, that probably means one dollar per nail. Still, manicures can be kinda fun sometimes, and it might be a good way to meet fellow bad _girls_ - so, she heads for it, passing Drakken in the process.

Correction. He nearly bowls her over on his way to the refreshment table, eyes shining at the prospect of sweets. "Would you watch where you're going, Doc?" she hollers back over her shoulder.

"I'm going to go nourish myself, Shego!" he calls back in that voice he thinks is oh-so-impressive.

__

Translation: I'm going to go stuff myself, Shego!

Well, whatever. She's not his mama; she doesn't have to watch out for him. If he learns any lessons tonight, it's gonna be the hard way.

At least they have black nail polish. She would rip out her own fingernails with pliers before she would let them be painted (gag) pink.

A bored-looking woman looks up from the containers of nail polish. "Can I help you?" she asks.

Before she can answer, there's a squawk from the direction of the refreshment table. A squawk that could only have come from one person.

_Drakken._ Her fingers tingle and she knows without looking at them that they're glowing. Why can't she have even two minutes of peace?

The squawk is quickly joined by a choking noise - and, okay, if he's choking, she should probably go help him. But when she reaches the refreshment table, Drakken seems to be breathing fine, considering the little noises he's already making and the indignant look on his face.

"Shego!" he yelps the second he sees her in the general vicinity. He holds out his glass to her and glares at it. "This stuff is _horrible_!"

"Boo-hoo." She folds her arms over her chest and glowers at him. "I thought you were dying or something, the way you screamed - "

Drakken cuts her off. "I mean it - it tasted really funny." He swallows hard, raising one itty-bitty hand to his throat. "And it _burned _going down."

Several words pop into her head then, and none of them are child-friendly. She doesn't particularly want to say any of them in front of the Doc, either.

While he's still gaping, she snatches the glass out of his hand and sniffs it. A familiar, suspicious odor drifts up. Yup. Someone spiked the punch. How cliche.

She takes a sip just to make sure. For once, Drakken's right - it really _does _sting. This is the hard stuff.

At least Little Mr. Clueless was tipped off by the taste. Wimpy-thin as he is, it wouldn't take much, and she does not particularly want to play "Fun With Inebriated Mad Scientists" tonight.

"Shego!" Drakken snaps, stomping his foot. "That's _my _glass!"

"Not anymore, it's not," she snaps right back.

His eyebrow squinches up over his nose. "What are you _talking _about?" he demands angrily.

Okay, she has to roll her eyes at that. "Ever heard of ALCOHOL, Dr. D?" she asks in her best sugar-sweet voice.

Drakken's mouth goes slack. "You mean, the stuff you use to clean cuts or the stuff you're not supposed to drink because it makes you drunk?"

"Doy." She arches an eyebrow. "What do you think?"

"She-GO!" Drakken's voice screeches. "If I knew, would I be asking you?"

_Ladies and gentlemen, my employer, the moron._ "The stuff that gets you drunk. Hard liquor, if you wanna get all scientific."

The moron in question tilts his head and smiles like a kid. "I do."

Of course he does. "Well, get this, Mr. Scientist. Getting drunk - "

"Makes you crash on the highway," Drakken interrupts, nodding as if he has the slightest clue what she's talking about. "But I wouldn't have to worry about that, because I'm driving the hovercraft."

" - AND," she adds, ignoring him, "it can make you say stupid things and walk into walls and throw up and pass out and all kinds of other lovely side effects." She holds out his glass to him, one side of her mouth up. "Still want a drink?"

As she expected, he shudders. "No, thanks. I'm good - besides - it still tastes like Germ-X."

She decides not to ask if he's actually ever tasted Germ-X. Knowing Drakken, he has. "Okay, now that we've gotten that established -" A very bad thought occurs to her. "You just had a sip, right?"

"Uh-huh." Drakken crinkles his nose, folding the freckles. "Why does anyone drink that stuff, anyway?"

Because her life just wouldn't be complete without giving a DARE lecture to a middle-aged dude. "It doesn't all taste _that _bad," she explains. "Plus, you have to be at least twenty-one to drink it, so I guess a bunch of people are trying to show off their adulthood. Or they wanna look cool." She winks and flicks her index finger at Drakken, expecting him to giggle.

He doesn't. He just stands there, hands in fists at his sides, eyes dead serious. "Passing out doesn't look cool."

Dr. D picks the weirdest times to have common sense. "Yeah, so, see? No appeal there whatsoever. And besides -" she presses her mouth into a straight line - "you're perfectly capable of making a fool out of yourself without booze."

"Exactly!" Drakken cries joyfully, flinging his arms up in a dramatic arc over his head. One of these days, she's gonna tickle him when he does that.

Right now, though, she just watches as his face slowly seems to realize what she actually said. Those arms flop at his sides, his whole face seems to fall to his chin, and he whines, "She-_go_. Don't mock me!"

"That wasn't a mock, it was a taunt," she replies calmly. And waits for the fireworks.

"What _now_?" she snaps.

"I - I - I -" Drakken licks his lips and swallows hard. "I feel dizzy." Right before he slams his eyes shut, she sees wild panic in them.

Swell. Just - swell.

She puts one hand on his shoulder to keep him from knocking the whole refreshment table into his lap and steers him toward a plastic folding chair. "Drakken, sit down."

He does, running his hands back through his hair. She clenches her fist and turns on her plasma out of sheer frustration. Surely even Dr. D couldn't get tipsy off one _sip_. . .

She reigns in the glow, moves in closer, and holds up two fingers. "Open your eyes," she commands him.

Drakken does. Yeah, they're definitely out-of-focus, it looks more from confusion than anything. "How many fingers am I holding up?" she asks.

He blinks. "Two."

_Phew. _"Okay, just what I thought. You scared yourself."

Drakken cocks his head again. "I did what?"

"You heard all those horrible things too much alcohol did to you, and you freaked yourself out so bad -" she can't help but chuckle - "because you were convinced one sip would get you snot-faced drunk."

To her further amusement, his hands fly up to his nose. "What does mucus have to do with anything?"

That doesn't dignify an answer. "Run along and play, Doc," she laughs. "I'm gonna go get my manicure."

"Play, indeed!" Drakken tosses his head in a preteeny way. "I'm going to go complain to Hench about this."

She rolls her eyes. "Yeah, why don't you just do that? Before your general weirdness rubs off on me."

He stalks off, muttering under his breath about how his weirdness would be an improvement on her lippiness and her sarcasticness (that's honestly the term he uses). Another set of chuckles join hers, deeper and raspier.

Duff Killigan.

"Who spit in his haggis?" the golfer asks, leaning casually on a club that looks _way _too skinny to support his weight.

She gives a Drakken-style grunt. "Oh, somebody put stupid juice in the punch. He's gonna go whine to Hench about it."

Duff's eyes gleam. "Whine over wine, eh?"

Like she's never heard _that _one before.

"It might be kinda amusing to watch, though, lassie," Duff continues. "After all, Blue Boy is enough of a gas sober. Can ye imagine if he _did _get himself a little sloshed?"

_Lassie._ Scottish or not, she always feels like a collie when he calls her that. "It might be funny," she concedes. "But guess which lucky, lucky villainness would have the honor of making sure he didn't kill himself and getting him home and nursing his hangover - "

"Ah." Duff grins. "I get yer point."

"Yeah." She gives him half a smile in return. "So do I."


	44. Pen and Paper

Unless some kind of hostile takeover took place recently, Kim Possible and all related characters still belong to Disney. All spelling errors are Drakken's, not mine. :)

**Pen and Paper**

Dr. Drakken's Mad-Scientist Log

Date: Uh. . . I don't really know. I could ask Shego, but I'm currently not speaking to her, and I don't trust the henchmen to know what _year _it is, much less what day.

They do make a mean raspberry smoothie, though - ugh, and I just spilled some on this logbook. Phooey! Is logbook one word or two?

Focus, Drakken.

Focus on what? I'm stuck in bed without an evil plan in sight! I had one - a brilliant one - come to me in a dream last night, like a vision from the heavens!

In this dream, I invaded the UN headquarters (Note to self: Look up where the UN headquarters is located!), dizguising myself as a visiting dignitary from South Newzumbia. Isn't that a wonderful name for a country?

ANYWAY, I then slipped a special concoction into each of the world leaders' apple pie, one completely indetectable by the human taste buds! And, because the potion didn't take effect right away, they left utterly unaware of what terrible fate was about to befall them! At midnite that nite, I activated the thingy and turned every single leader of the world's great nations into cows!

Told Shego this. She was not impressed. She asked why I didn't kill them instead of turning them into cows. I asked her where her sense of whimsy was. She asked me where my BRIAN was.

Brain, that is. Not Brian. I don't even know anyone named Brian.

Focus, Drakken.

Then she asked HOW exactly I planned on turning them all into cows. She said I was an evil genius (these were not her exact words), not a warlock. I said I would think of something - I am brilliant, after all.

The problem is, the more I thought about the plan, the stupider it sounded. And it all made such perfect _sense _in my dream!

Oh, well. When I conquer the world, everyone will see my genius ideas. The only problem is, one of those genius ideas has to WORK for the world to be under my control. It's a vicious circle.

Depressed me. Tried to cheer myself up by prank-calling Dementor. Asked him if his refrigerator was running. Expected him to say yes, and then I would tell him to go catch it. Heh-heh-heh.

But instead he said, and I quote, "Drakken? Is that you, you doom cough? What are you doing?"

I made a dumb mistake then - err, I mean my amazing mind had a momentary laps - and I said, "How did you know it was me?" instead of "What makes you think this is Drakken?" DARN IT!

Dementor told me if I spent half as much time on my evil schemes as I do just making a pest of myself, I might have a better chance of taking over the world. Then he laughed in my ear and hung up.

I hate Dementor. Like he has any idea what a TRUE genius like me - I - myself - whatever - goes through working on evil plans.

NOTE TO SELF: At next year's villians' convention, put Ex-Lax in Dementor's punch. Very wicked.

And what is a doom cough anyway? Sounds like some kind of nasty virus that would wipe out the entire population - oooh! Good idea!

Watched a Discovery Channel show then. Fell asleep on the couch halfway threw it. I don't know why - Shego says it was becuz I was up all nite and my body needs rest.

Kind of embarrassing, actually. Supervillains are tough - there bodies are different! If I wanted to go a hole MONTH without sleep, I should be able to. But I'm not, and that kind of scares me.I wrote that really small, cuz supervillains aren't supposed to get scared, either.

Anyway, when I woke up, my back hurt - I think I slept on it wrong, so I went to Smarty Mart to get a hot pad for it. Saw a bunch of magazines on display. One of them was talking about the best ways to handle "fat days". How can a day be fat? Do these people have no knowledge of basic physics? (- That's a scientific term, so I know how to spell it.) Sometimes it's really lonely being the only one with a brian.

And do you know what those imbuhcills - imbellicls - idiots that run Smarty Mart did? They put the hot pads ALL THE WAY ON THE BOTTOM SHELF! I bent down to get one and threw my back completely out, right there in Aisle 40. I thought they were going to have to call the pair-o-medics - it was humilating. And scary.

I begged them not to call an ambulance - uh, I mean, I told them I didn't think that would be necessary. Took my cell phone and called Shego. Started crying, even though I was being as tough as I could. She was DEFINITELY not impressed.

What kind of sicko puts hot pads for hurt backs on the BOTTOM SHELF? Even I won't be _that _cruel when I'm ruler of the world. And now, to top it all off, I'm INJURED! I could SUE!

Once we were home, Shego told me we already HAVE a hot water bottle and asked why I didn't just put THAT on my back. Told her the truth - I thought that was just for when my stomach's upset.

She said I could use it for my back too (rolling her eyes sarcastically the whole time). I asked why she didn't tell me that BEFORE I went to get a hot pad. She said a bunch of things that hurt my feelings and that I don't want to repeat here, so that's why I'm not speaking to her. I keep telling her I'm not speaking to her, but she doesn't seem to beleive me for some reason.

So that's why I'm writing all this in my logbook - because I can't really get out of bed right now. Come to think of it, my wrist hurts from all this writing. I probably better stop writing.

Maybe I'll go to sleep. My eyes feel all heavy. Besides, maybe an idea using the doom cough will come to me in another dream, a better one!

_Brain, _that's what it is. Sometimes it feels like I'm the only one with a _brain_. And it's a good brain, even if it mixes up letters sometimes - or frequently.

Oh, well, stupid people are probably easier to dominate anyway. This thought makes me happy.

Should I . . . sign this or something? It doesn't seem right to just - end it. What will future generations say when they're being taught about the world's leader and find out he never signed his logbook entries? What THEN?

Okay - here goes:

Sincerely,

Dr. Drakken (MUA-HA-HA!)


	45. Can You Hear Me?

Dr. Drakken is not mine. But I totally take much better care of him than those ingrates at Disney. ;)

**Can You Hear Me?**

Lunchtime used to be one of the three best times of the day. Now it's one of the three worst. At least the guards gave up trying to get him to eat last week after they forced him to take a couple of bites of lukewarm macaroni and cheese and he promptly upchucked them on the cafeteria floor.

Today they're serving spaghetti. He used to like spaghetti - about 700 years ago in his former life. But when he doesn't feel good, it's about the worst smell in the universe.

Lucre slurping it right across the table from him doesn't exactly help, either. Even with the black spots at the corners of his eyes, he can see tomato sauce smeared all over his cellmate's chin. He digs his nails - bitten down to stubs - into the sides of the bench he's sitting on and desperately wills his stomach to behave.

"Hey." Lucre leans across the table, into his personal space. "You gonna eat that?"

"No," he snaps, shoving his tray away. "You can have it."

Lucre tilts his head at him. "Huh, too bad. I guess those guys in Cell Block J won the bet today."

He freezes with one hand still on his tray. "Huh? What bet?"

"Some of the guys make bets about whether you're gonna eat or not every day," Lucre informs him casually. "And if you do, whether or not you're gonna - ya know, barf." He nods like he's an expect on spaghetti gambling. "I always bet in your favor, a' course - cuz you're so awesome - but that one table over there -" Lucre points at a group of particularly mean-looking guys in the corner - "they have a motto: 'Everything that goes down must come up.'"

He can feel the tips of his ears going bright red. It's the most awful feeling in the world, angry and ashamed at the same time.

"I told them that that's actually the law of gravity," Lucre continues. "Only backwards, of course. But it looks like I owe 'em my computer time for the next - "

People are making bets on this? They're _profiting _off his misery? How _dare _they? "That does it!" he hollers, slamming both hands down onto the table with a THUD that's not nearly loud enough.

He jumps to his feet and the cafeteria slides sideways. The black spots merge, fuzzily, into one.

The next thing he knows, something cold and wet is moving around his face in circles. "All right, all right, come on back to us," someone's muttering close to his ear.

He's lying down. How is he lying down? _Why _is he lying down? It's not bedtime yet, is it?

Mustering all his strength, he manages to open one eyelid. The blurry form of a prison guard is bent over him, a dripping-wet washcloth in his hand. At least it's not the one who calls him "Scarface." He moans and opens his other eye.

The guard sags in the middle and sighs in relief. "Oh, good. You gave us quite a scare there, pal."

He scrambles backward on his cot - what is his cot doing in the cafeteria? - and tries not to fall over. "I'm not your pal," he informs the man sternly. "I hate you!"

The guard smirks. "Okay - so you're feeling better."

No, he's not. Now that he thinks about it, his head is spinning clockwise, and his body's going counterclockwise. He can't help it - he lays his head back down and moans from someplace deep.

"What happened?" he whispers. If he talks any louder, he knows he'll throw up, and he can't do that. He hasn't thrown up for - for - well, he's not good at keeping track of time in here, but it's been at least two days.

The guard presses the bridge of his nose between two fingers and looks straight at him. "You passed out is what happened. Right in the middle of the cafeteria. Your cousin carried you back here."

"Eddy?" he asks and immediately realizes what a stupid question that is. He doesn't exactly have any other cousins in prison. "Eddy can _carry _me?"

"Uh, yeah." The guard grunts. "Do you have any idea how much you weigh?"

None whatsoever, so he blurts out the first fib that pops into his mind. "Two hundred pounds. All muscle, too."

He might as well have just said he was Dr. Jekyll's pet woodpecker, the way the guard looks at him. "You haven't seen yourself lately, have you?"

What does that mean? He glances down at himself and feels his eyes widen. _Snap._

Even through the orange jumpsuit thingy that clashes with his skin - orange and blue are opposites on the color wheel - he can see his ribs, looking like keys on a xylophone. He's pretty sure they won't make music if he hits them, though. His legs look like someone stuck a couple of toothpicks out the leg holes. "Oh," is all he can say.

"Exactly." The guard looks at him like he's a misbehaving toddler. "See, this is what happens when you don't eat."

He glares at his captor indignantly. "I _can't _eat!" he yells, desperately trying to make the man understand. "If I eat, I -" He stops, because if he says it, he'll do it.

"I know, I know." The guard holds up a hand. "I helped clean up the macaroni mess."

_Ooh. _He swallows hard. _Not gonna throw up._

Suddenly, words are just spilling out of his mouth - words he hasn't been able to get in edgewise with Lucre around. "I don't know what's wrong with me," he confesses. "It's not like I have the flu or anything - I don't have all these other symptoms. I just feel -" he doesn't even bother to find the right word - "I just feel throw-uppy all the time."

The guard puts a hand that he's too weak to pull away from on his forehead. "You do feel a little warm."

No, he doesn't. He feels very, very cold.

And why is this guard acting almost nice? He knows better - there's nothing "nice" in here - but it's been so long since he had it that he wants to go to it. And he can't do that. "If you were really my pal," he finally says, "you'd get me out of here."

The guard laughs, but he doesn't really sound happy. "Nice try, dude."

"Shego won't come!" he wails. "She's my sidekick - she always breaks me out - why isn't she coming?"

"Well, you know what they say." The guard leans in again. "There's no honor among thieves."

Who are They and what do They know, anyway? "I'd break _her _out," he retorts. "If she was the one in jail and I had my Doomsday devices."

"I actually don't doubt that."

He sags back into the dingy gray blankets and sighs and wonders what _is _wrong with him. Some of his most important machines have totally malfunctioned just because one little gear wasn't screwed in right. Is that what's happening here? What's the gear?

"I guess it doesn't matter what's wrong, though," he finally mumbles. "I know you guys aren't allowed to get me medicine."

The guard's eyebrows - he has two of them - shoot right up. "Excuse me?"

"You - one of you guys - told me you couldn't get me medicine," he explains. "When I asked for some Pepto."

"No, no, no, no." The guard shakes his head. "What that means is that we can't just waltz right on in here and start handing out pills and things to you."

Pepto-Bismol is a liquid. He blinks at the guard. "But you _can _give medicine?"

"Absolutely we can. We need to get a doctor in here and sign five thousand forms in triplicate, but, yeah, we can give medicine." The guard laces his fingers together and shifts his weight on the stool he's sitting on. "Matter of fact, we're legally required to give medicine if you need it. It's in the Constitution and everything."

He's in the Constitution? "Really?" he squeals, shifting his own weight to lean on his right arm.

_Ekk_ - pain receptors going off, reminding him that his upper arm's not ready for that yet. He yelps "Yow!" and jumps back and rubs the hurting spot with his left hand.

"Nope, not until Saturday." Before he can open his mouth to ask, the guard half-smiles at him. "Today's Thursday."

Two whole days? He'll never make it. "And I can't touch her!" he yells to the guard - or maybe just to the air. "She's the only good thing left in my life and I can't even touch her! I'm not going to hurt my own mother!" He stops and gulps, blinking fast, because if you cry in prison, you're dead.

"I wanna get out," he keeps going. "I wanna get out and take over the world, but I don't want to do what I did last time. I got so close - and I want to get that close again - but I'm scared that if I do, I'll do it again!"

He waits for the _Drakken, what are you TALKING about?_ But the guard nods like he made perfect sense, so he dares to ask the question that's been torturing him for a long time now. "Did. . . did anyone die?"

The guard doesn't have to say anything. His face answers for him, and it says _Yes_.

Something rips him straight in half then. He's not sure what is it, but it scares him, and it hurts. "I didn't mean to!" he cries. "I really didn't mean to! I've never ki - kil - made anyone die before."

That's true. In fact, besides Kim Possible, and maybe the buffoon, he's never _wanted _to make anyone die before. Okay, so maybe if Dementor got run over by a semi one day, he wouldn't be too upset.

The guard scoots his stool closer, and he backs farther away in case he tries to touch him. "Well, what did you expect, dude?" he asks. "Those things were toppling skyscrapers, smashing cars - "

He _knows _that. He watched them, for Pete's sake! Telling him what he already knows just makes him feel sicker. "I don't know," he says honestly. "I guess I just expected everyone to be hiding from giant machines of destruction, and then I'd come in and take over the world during the chaos." His throat catches on a sob he didn't know was there. "But I almost hurt a little girl, and I didn't care!"

No response. "They _should _keep me away from my mother!" he finally yells into the palms of his hands. "I'm a monster! And nobody hears me! Nobody, nobody, nobody!"

"No."

He brings his head up and squints through wet eyes. "What?"

The guard is about two inches away from him, eyes serious. "If you were a monster, you wouldn't be about half-dead from guilt," he says sternly.

_Guilt_? This thing that keeps making him throw himself face-first in front of the toilet is _guilt_? He was almost positive that Dr. Possible planted a robot in his belly and is now happily pushing random buttons on the remote control just to make him miserable.

"You're not a monster," the guard repeats. "But you got one in you, and you gotta quit feeding it."

He gives a mushy snort. "If it's in me, it's not getting much food."

The guard's eyes suddenly look - wise, somehow. "It doesn't eat food. It eats pride - and pain - and fear - and the desire for power."

_The Voice_. "And that little itchy feeling that never goes away?" he questions.

"That, too." The guard hands him a Kleenex. "You wanna wipe your nose there, dude?"

He does, and then his eyes, remembering too late that's the wrong order. "You tell anyone, and I'll - " he starts to threaten, but the guard interrupts.

"Tell anyone what? That your allergies are kicking in?" The guard raises one eyebrow. "Why would I do a dumb thing like that?"

For the first time in about a week, the taste of bile disappears from his mouth. He's never been so grateful to anyone.

"Now - " the guard reaches into his pocket and pulls out what he recognizes as a pack of crackers - "how about we make sure you don't faint in the lunchroom again?"

Hmm. Saltines. He remembers those. Whenever he was getting over the stomach flu or something, they were the first food he was able to keep down. He nods and holds out his hand, and the guard puts a cracker in it.

He takes a cautious bite, and immediately remembers how wonderful these things are. Some salt, but not too much. Not too bland, but not too much flavor. He chews - slowly, because his teeth are still out of practice - and finally dares to swallow.

And waits. His stomach wobbles a little, but apparently decides one bite of cracker doesn't pose too much of a threat.

The guard catches his eye. "Well?"

He swallows again. "I - I think it's going to stay."

As it turns out, he's right. He eats five crackers and even manages to take a few sips of water. Finally, though, he leans back and realizes that's all he can handle right now. "I need to stop."

The guard jerks his head in the direction of the trash can, and he shakes his head. "No, I'm okay. I'm just - done."

Huh. His belly doesn't want anything else in it, but he's not sick. Interesting phenomenon.

A noise on the other side of the bars gets his attention, and he looks up to see the other prisoners marching back to their cells. Their eyes are so hard and stony he can't tell what they're feeling, and he ducks his head so they can't see the fear in his eyes. "Perfect timing," the guard grunts. "Here comes your little buddy now."

He can hear Lucre yakking from all the way down the hall. He's about to explain - in no uncertain terms - that just because they're cellmates does _not _make them buddies, when the guard stands up to leave. "Coming!" he hollers to the other guards.

Before he leaves, though, the man looks back over his shoulder at him. "You take care of yourself, Drakken," he says quietly.

Lucre's blabbering sounds like Charlie Brown's teacher for the next few hours. He doesn't understand it, and that makes him almost not mind it. He catches himself actually smiling a little bit once.

Because he has finally - _finally _- been heard.

NOTES:

*"Everyone would be hiding from giant machines of destruction" is a reference to _Graduation_, when Ron says that's pretty much what everyone's doing in reaction to the Lorwardian invasion.

*"You're not a monster. But you got one in you, and you gotta quit feeding it." Anyone remember this way from _waaaaaaaaay _back in Chapter Four?

*Lastly, the Mysterious Arm Injury will be explained near the end of the story.


	46. Heal

Kim Possible and all related characters belong to Disney. At least until I make enough money to buy them (which will probably be about two weeks from never).

**Heal**

The last few awful days disappear from his memory as he leers viciously at the pickle jar he has just conquered - all right, all right, so Shego helped. But she's back from her unscheduled vacation, the random lovesick guy who sang like a dying rhinoceros ran for his life, and he has his pickles. Life's good again.

He pops another pickle into his mouth and chews slowly, relishing it. (Pickle relish. Heh. That's a good one.) After the Hank's Gourmet Cupcakes incident, his taste buds are ready for something crunchy and chewy and definitely _not _sweet. These are hitting the spot.

The lair seems _bigger _than usual, somehow, though. Something about the air itself is different. He can hear himself chewing, even though he's doing it with his mouth closed, the way Shego always tells him to. "I already know how teeth work, Doc; I don't need a demonstration," she always says.

_That's _what's so weird, he realizes nearly toppling out of his chair as he sits straight up. Shego's not talking - not even muttering smart-alecky things under her breath or snorting in that way that always makes him check to make sure his fly's zipped. When he looks over at her, she's not even rolling her eyes at him. She's got her nail file in one hand, but she's not filing her nails. She's just staring at her hand like she's never seen it before.

Huh. Shego almost looks. . . sad.

Well, let her be sad! After abandoning him for - for - how long was she gone, anyway? He sort of lost track of time plotting his maniacal revenge on this disrespectful pickle jar. Anyway, after leaving him alone for that long, she deserves to be sad!

Yeah. He turns away, shoves another pickle in his mouth, and chews a little bit slower. It doesn't taste quite as good this time.

He peeks back over his shoulder. Shego's eyes are drooping at the corners. He's never seen her with droopy eyes.

Something in him sags. Just like that, things aren't okay anymore. He can't be all-the-way-happy when Shego's sitting here looking like someone just ruined her plans for world conquest. And he's waited a long time to be all-the-way-happy.

_It's not like we're even friends anymore, _he reminds himself sternly. _Good friends don't leave their friends in jail and destroy their stuff - and good friends don't let aliens chain their friends up._

So, fine, whatever. He shrugs, casually, Shego-style. They're not friends anymore, but he's still her employer, and he still doesn't want her sitting there two feet away from him looking sad.

"I wish _my _life were that simple," Shego finally butts in. She sounds like she has mustard in her mouth, and she's trying to spit it out. "I wish _I _could just eat a pickle and become ecstaticallyhappy."

"Oh," he mumbles around a mouth full of relished pickles (heh-heh). He holds the jar out to her and smiles with his lips closed so he doesn't leak juice. "You want one?"

He waits for her to grin from ear to ear and grab one and eat it and for life to be good again. But she scowls at him like he did something very wrong and points her nail file at him. "Forget it, Doc."

Shego's voice is sharp, like always, but it's kind of tired, too. He's never seen her like this, except for that one time. . . "You don't have any Moodulators stuck on you, do you, Shego?" he asks. _Because if you do, I'll be running for my life right about now._

She sighs and shakes her head. "No." Her eyes droop even farther, and he feels even worse. If it were a Moodulator, he could figure out a way to remove it - he's dealt with uncooperative machines before. But he doesn't know what to do if his sidekick's sad.

And then, suddenly, he _does _know. He knows what'll make it all better, what fixes any bad mood! He dashes back to his bedroom and digs through several jumbled boxes until he finds it.

"Here, Shego!" he cries, his feet skidding on the floor as he runs back to her. "Try this!"

Shego looks up, sees what he's holding, and raises one eyebrow. "Wha - ?"

"Bubble wrap," he explains happily. "It _always _makes me feel better!"

Shego looks at him doubtfully, so he pinches one of the little bubbles between his fingers and squeezes as hard as he can. With a sharp, satisfying POP!, it deflates. "See, see, see?" he cries. "Look at this!"

He grabs another bubble and narrows his eyes at it, imagining it with red hair and purple clothes that finally fit her. "So, Kim Possible," he snarls, "you thought you could defeat the great Dr. Drakken with your youthful energy and sheer dumb luck! Well, you thought _wrong_!"

POP! Kim Possible Bubble is no more. He grins in triumph. "And then," he continues, "if that's not enough, you can put it down on the floor and -" he hears his voice grow more and more excited as he gets to the best part - "JUMP UP AND DOWN ON TOP OF IT!"

He throws the bubble wrap to the floor - a couple more bubbles pop, and he didn't even mean to do that. Guess he doesn't know his own strength. He takes a deep breath, holds it for five seconds, and crouches down on his ankles, preparing for a huge leap.

He must have miscalculated, though, because one heel catches the bubble wrap - POPPITY-POP-POP! - and the next thing he knows, he's on the ground, backside stinging. He chomps his lip to keep from yelping and fibs through gritted teeth, "Only the pros are able to pull off that move."

Shego mutters something under her breath. Kind of sounds like, "Yeah, the pro dorks."

Yes, she definitely needs some major bubble wrap therapy. He holds out the sheet to her and pokes another bubble with his finger. "See? Now you try it!"

With no enthusiasm whatsoever, Shego raises her index finger, turns on its glowiness, and lasers an entire row of bubbles straight through. She pulls her finger back and blows on it, but she's still not smiling. Not even smirking, which he'd settle for at this point.

"Shego, no!" he yells, snatching the bubble wrap away from her. "That's not how you do it!"

His mind is racing too hard to come up with words or ideas. If she can't even be cheered up by popping bubble wrap, he's not sure what to do. It's just - _inhuman _not to like bubble wrap.

Shego looks at him like he's a malfunctioning Doomsday device. He rubs his chin and tries not to let his face show how frustrated he is.

"You know what this place could use more of?" Shego asks out of nowhere.

He shrugs and glances around. "Bathrooms?"

"No." She rolls her eyes. "Girls. It's not always a lot of fun being the only female around here."

Oh, phew. Bathrooms would take a lot of time and hard work to put in, but girls? That's easy. He reaches toward Shego, fingers stretching toward her hair until he's pretty sure his whole arm is going to fall off -

"Hello?" Shego springs away from him, holding up her hands in the Time-out sign. "Personal space!"

The only thing that comes out of his mouth is, "Nngg gren," and even _he's _not sure what that means.

Shego steps closer to him, green eyes narrowing. "Were you trying to get my DNA again, Drakken?"

Ooh, boy. He's about to get in trouble, and he didn't even do anything wrong. "If I cloned you, there'd be more girls around here!" he explains frantically. "I thought you'd like that!"

"You thought twelve of me would defeat Kim Possible in no time and attend to all your little needs." Shego's eyes go down even farther. "Drakken always comes first around here."

No, no, no. He stomps his foot. "Stop it, Shego!" he cries. "I was just trying to be _nice_! You felt bad - and I can't be happy when you're sitting there sad - "

The look on Shego's face tells him he said the wrong thing again. "_You _can't be happy," she repeats, voice dripping sarcasm. "It's all about _you_."

How can he make her understand? His brain whirls, and he grabs his head with both hands to make it stop. "Noooo!" he sputters. "Noooo!"

Shego steps in front of him and pulls his hands down. "Stop." Her voice is so calm and cold, he freezes. "I happen to have some really important things on my mind, FYI. So if you'll just stop acting like a two-year-old, _that _might help."

Well, _he's _got important things on _his _mind, too! What could be more important than world domination? He sniffles and wonders how his plan to help her went so wrong.

"Fine," he says, stiffly getting to his feet and turning away. "Next time you need the help of an evil genius, don't call me!"

Shego rolls her eyes. They're still droopy. So is he.

He picks up the pickle jar - there's one pickle left, but he doesn't eat it as he trudges into the kitchen with his shoulders hunched toward each other. His mouth is watering for something soft and warm and sweet, even though he vowed he'd never eat anything like that again.

Compromise. Ice cream. Sweet, but not warm or soft.

He grabs a bowl from the cupboard and picks up the ice cream scooper and gets himself three huge scoops of neopostmodern, or whatever you call that three-flavors-in-one flavor. One scoop of vanilla, one of strawberry, and one of chocolate.

_Ooh_! There's some chocolate syrup left!

Delighted, he snatches it up and drizzles it over his ice cream. He glances around to make sure Shego's not watching, then squirts some chocolate syrup straight out of the bottle into his mouth. Skips a few steps.

But - _ewww_. His mouth still tastes like pickles. He likes pickles, and he likes chocolate syrup, but together? Together they're not so good.

He spits some pickle-green-and-chocolate-brown mush into the sink and swipes his mouth across his sleeve. He sure hopes the relish taste disappears soon, because ice cream _always _makes him feel better -

Before his mind understands exactly what his body is doing, he's opened the door to the lair's main room and walked in and set the bowl down in front of Shego. He doesn't really know what to say, except "Here's some ice cream," but that sounds dumb, because she can see it's ice cream, so he just turns around and starts to leave. With his luck, she'll probably say she's on a diet - or throw it in his face -

"Dr. D?"

He turns around and squints at Shego. She's pointing at the ice cream bowl, and her eyes aren't droopy anymore. "Is this - for me?"

"Yes." He nods. "You can thank me later."

"Yeah, you have my eternal devotion." Shego holds up her hand. "Sarcasm, okay? Don't let it go to your head."

Her lips twitch. It's the best thing he's seen all day.


	47. Out Cold

Kim Possible, Ron, Rufus, Wade, Drakken, Shego, blah-blah-blah, Disney.

Please be gentle on me - it's my first time writing from Kim's POV. (Which is kind of pathetic when you think about it.)

**Out Cold**

"So, Wade, tell us again what kinda 'death-and-destruction' type machine we're looking for," Ron panted, peering over her shoulder at the Kimmunicator's screen. "I mean, in case Kim forgot."

Wade raised an eyebrow at her, and she rolled her eyes. She knew that Wade knew that was Ron-language for, _I forgot_ or, even more likely, _I wasn't listening the first time you explained it. _

"It's an Energy Eradicator," Wade explained patiently, tapping furiously on his keyboard. "Designed to suck any and all power out of the world's electrical appliances and send it back to Drakken's lair, where he can hold it for ransom."

_Hmm._ She twisted her mouth. _Deja vu._

"Question!" Ron stuck his hand straight into the air like he was in school. "Didn't the Seniors try that - oh, just a few months ago?"

Right. _That _was where she'd heard that idea before. "Drakken stole their plot?" she guessed.

"That _is _evil," Ron added, voice awestruck. Good old clueless Ron.

Wade nodded in disgust. "And pumped it up. He's trying to take the _world's _electricity, not just Europe's. And remember what the Seniors asked for in return?"

Oh, boy, did she ever. "Europe's 'nice little islands'," she recited, stifling a snort.

"With their warm beach days and hot disco nights," Ron chimed in, flexing his nonexistent muscles in a not-too-great impersonation of Junior.

Wade nodded again. "Right. But, as you can imagine, Drakken's gonna be amping the demands, too."

Ron's face scrunched in thought. "He's gonna ask for all of Europe's. . . big islands?"

"No, Ron," she said, trying not to look _too _tweaked. There were times when her best friend's cluelessness was more annoying than endearing. "He's going to ask for control of the world."

The light went on behind Ron's brown eyes, and he whacked himself in the forehead. "Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh," he said slowly, sliding his hand down the length of his face. "That makes sense."

A picture of a strange machine flashed on the Kimmunicator before she could reply. The thing was huge and silvery-black, with an extension cord thick as an anaconda slithering down from the open control panel on top. Each one of its four sides was decorated with a gigantic plug, prongs longer than she was tall.

Okay - mildly concerning. Especially in Drakken's hands.

"Whoa," Ron breathed, straight down her neck. "What is _that _thing?"

"That's the Energy Eradicator," Wade's voice answered from behind the picture. "And it's almost ready to go. All Drakken needs to do is plug that fourth plug there - "

"The blue one?" she asked just to make sure. Typical Drakken, having to make everything the same color as his skin.

"Right. He needs to plug it into the socket on the bottom of the machine and turn the amplifier - that's on the bottom of the machine, too - to a number between thirty-five and three hundred. Then the machine will come to life -"

Wade kept going, spouting scientific terms that went _far _over her head. All she really needed to know, anyway, was how to destroy this thing without taking herself and Ron with it.

"So, what's the safest road to take toward shutting it down?" she questioned.

The picture shrank to the bottom left of the screen, and Wade furrowed up his brow at her. "Well, the best thing to do would be to turn the amplifier back to zero. But if you can't do that, you could always just have Rufus crawl inside the socket and bite through all the red wires."

_Amplifier on the bottom. Rufus in the socket - _red_ wires._ She tucked that away in her brain and turned to Ron. "Ready?"

Ron didn't answer. His eyes were still fixed on the Kimmunicator, lost in some other world at a time he _really _shouldn't be. "It looks like a cross between a mutant salon chair and a compass," he said thoughtfully. "I'm gonna call it a - a mupass!"

She stared at him for a minute, wanting to blurt out, _You did NOT just say that_, but, of course, she knew he did. "Just don't expect it to catch on," she advised him.

Ron waved his hand casually through the air. "Remember, KP, that's what you said about the naco, too."

Okay, so he had a point, but an entirely unrelated one. She was about to tell him to forget the mupass and the nacos, too, for that matter, when a loud explosion shook the ground beneath her feet. She dropped to her knees on the sandy shore and flung her arms over her head. Next to her, she heard Ron flop smack on his stomach and start screaming squeakier than Rufus.

It seemed to take forever before the rumblings died down, before the Kimmunicator beeped again and Wade cried, "Guys! Are you okay?"

"We're fine, Wade," she answered, pushing herself to her feet and pressing her hand to her chest. Nothing like being caught in an island earthquake to make your heart skip a few beats.

Ron looked up from examining himself, apparently satisfied that he was still in one piece, and whistled under his breath. "Dude, Shego must have gotten _really _mad."

Wade shook his head. "It's not her. I've done a quick scan of all the security cameras on the premises - "

Of course he had.

"- and Shego's not even in the lair. I don't know what caused that." Wade leaned in closer to the screen, eyes cautious. "Be careful, guys."

Hmm. Mysterious explosions coming from Drakken's lair could _not _be a good sign. But Shego not being around _was_. No balls of plasma to dodge during the fight - and now that she thought about it, she'd never seen Drakken fight for himself. Maybe he couldn't.

"Will do, Wade," she answered. She tucked the Kimmunicator back into her pocket, exchanging it for the grappling hook. "Shall we, Ron?"

Scaling the cliffs that elevated Drakken's lair above the beach barely winded her. She didn't even bat an eye when Ron knocked one of those ridiculous "KEEP OUT - HAUNTED" signs down into the ocean.

But once inside the lair, she froze in the doorway, heart thundering in her ears. Drakken lay sprawled across the floor, eyes closed, each limb going in a different direction, stiller than she'd ever seen him.

She put a hand over his mouth and held a finger to her own lips to keep him from finishing that thought. _Don't you dare be dead, Drakken,_she thought, crossing the room in short, careful strides in case he was faking, which didn't seem Drakken's style. _Just - don't you dare. _

After all, she'd never seen a dead body before and wasn't quite sure she'd know what to do with one. More importantly, she didn't _want _to - even if it belonged to a supervillain, a menace to society, a downright brat.

She bent down and quickly, professionally, pressed two fingers to his throat. A heartbeat, shaky but strong, thudded against her fingertips.

_Phew. _She took her hands away - because it was just way too weird to be taking her arch-foe's pulse - and heaved a sigh of relief. "He's alive, Ron," she whispered.

"Well, the mupass sure isn't," Ron whispered back - at least, Ron's version of a whisper, which could probably be heard from anywhere in the lair. "Man, we don't even _need _to total it."

She whirled around to look. Sure enough, the Energy Eradicator was fizzing and sparking, a gigantic black hole blown straight in the middle of it. Two of the four plugs had dropped off - one hung from the ceiling, and she had no idea where the other one could be.

"I think that was the source of the explosion." Wade's voice came, muffled, from the pocket of her cargo pants.

She pulled out the Kimmunicator and sighed again, this time in exasperation. "And another plan bites the dust."

"Unfortunately, at least for Drakken," Wade wiggled his eyebrows mischievously, "he got a little too greedy. Yanked the amplifier all the way up to five hundred."

"Ohh, man." Ron nodded knowingly from across the room. "I just hate it when I do that."

She decided not to even dignify that with a reply. "And lemme guess - that was more than the machine could handle, so it exploded."

"Bingo." Wade flicked his index finger at her. "You still might want to have Rufus chew through the red wires, though, just in case."

"Uh-huh!" Rufus popped his little naked head out of Ron's pocket and saluted proudly.

She couldn't help but smile at him. "Okay, Rufus, do your thing."

"You can count on us, KP," Ron answered, puffing out his scrawny chest. She turned away before his pants could plummet.

And there was Drakken, still unconscious, face so pale the scar was popping out at her. Part of her hesitated, took a couple of steps backward - even without Shego or those freaky Bebes around, it felt weird to be so close to him and not have to be on her guard.

But another part of her brain was racing with all those classes she took at the Red Cross, spewing worst case scenarios. _Concussion, broken neck, skull fracture, paralysis. . . _

"Mupass disabled, KP," Ron reported suddenly, putting a hand on her shoulder. He wrinkled his nose down at Drakken's limp form. "Dude, you ripped off the Seniors' idea. How lame is that?"

"Ron, you just insulted an unconscious person," she pointed out.

"Oh." Ron blinked. "Well, we better split before he comes to - unless, of course. . ." His voice trailed off and he stared down at his grubby tennis shoes. "Ya think we should, like, carry him back to his bed or something?"

She considered that for all of about 2.5 seconds before shaking her head. Drakken wasn't a very big guy, but she still didn't think she and Ron would be able to lift him. And even if they could - the Red Cross classes piped up again and she shook her head. "We're not supposed to move him in case he has any broken bones."

"Eww." Ron shuddered. "So - we go."

"No." Something tugged her down the hall. "Not yet."

"But Ki-im!" Ron's voice spiraled up into whine-territory. "I don't wanna be here when Blue Dude wakes up!"

"Ron." She turned around and put her hands on her hips. "Shego's not here. His machine's kaput. I can think I can more than handle Drakken by himself."

Ron's mouth went into a little "O" as that sank in. "Point."

The door at the very end of the hall had tons of scratch marks in the wood and a pitch-black sign with "KEEP OUT" written on it, framed by some not-exactly-welcoming skull-and-crossbones pictures. Good grief - that was what the _Tweebs _put on their doors.

"You're going in his _room_?" Ron's voice screeched nearly out of her hearing range.

"Yeah." She shrugged away the _eww-gross _feeling and pushed the door open. "If I'm not back in ten minutes, send the rescue squad."

Behind her, Ron gave a whimper, and she felt the slightest bit guilty for teasing him. But that disappeared once she stepped into the dark of Drakken's bedroom and fumbled around for a light switch. There! She flipped it, flooding the messy room in light.

Huh. Except for the crumpled blueprints scattered all over the floor and the gigantic TV in front of the bed, she could have been looking at _Ron's _bedroom. Dirty clothes piled in the corners, covers kicked down to the bottom of the bed, calendar still two months behind.

"Hey, look at this!" Ron, apparently finding the room less intimidating now, charged inside and squatted down in front of the TV. "Man, I don't believe this, KP!"

"What?" she asked, heading for the bed. "Some other evil device?"

"No!" Ron cried. "Dude, he has the complete _Scooby-Doo _series on DVD!"

Wonderful. Ron and Drakken shared similar tastes in television. She grabbed the big red-and-white-striped pillow and yanked it off the bed, sending a tiny brown ball of fluff to the floor.

For a minute, the pillow-mission was all but forgotten. She bent down and picked up a tiny teddy bear, a jagged scar knitted under its left eye, _both _eyes hooded by a single, thick eyebrow. Its sides were squeezed, which she knew from Ron-experience meant it had been squeezed in fright more than once. The thought of a deranged supervillain being scared enough to cling to a teddy definitely boggled her mind.

She dropped the thing back on the bed like it was singeing her hands. _Darn _it - Drakken was human, after all.

"EWWWWWWWWwwwwwwwwwwwww!" Ron's squeal brought her out of those thoughts. She whipped her head around to find him holding a heap of pastel-yellow fabric in the air. The way he pinched it between two fingers told her it was exactly what she was hoping it wasn't. "That is SICK AND WRONG!"

She forced an eye-roll and pointed her voice at him. "Yes, Ron, Drakken wears underwear, just like everyone else in the world. Now would you put those _down_?" _Because, natural or not, it is just beyond gorchy to think about. _

Ron obeyed, wiping his hands on the seat of his pants. "Man, those better have been clean!"

"Shut up and grab the blanket," she retorted.

Looking miffed, Ron snatched up the huge red comforter and draped it over his shoulders. "Can I take the _Scooby-Doo _set?" he asked.

_That _eye-roll didn't _need_ to be forced. "No, that would constitute stealing."

"Even from Drakken?" Ron whined.

"Yeah, I know it tanks." She took a cautious step into the lab and found Drakken still off in La-La-Land on the floor. "But we're the good guys, and we're supposed to do the right thing. Speaking of which. . ."

_Okay. Here I go._She took a deep breath, dropped to her knees, and cupped both hands under Drakken's head. It felt heavy, and the ends of his ponytail tickled her fingers, but she focused on lifting it up just enough so that it wasn't hitting the floor anymore. "Pillow," she hissed to Ron.

Luckily, he understood and slid the pillow under Drakken's head, which she let go of. It landed with a muffled thump and she thought she heard the villain cough from somewhere far away.

"Oh - ew - KP!" Ron whisper-shouted, grabbing her sleeve and yanking her around. "Lookit!"

A tiny stream of blood was slowly dribbling out of each of Drakken's nostrils. _Probably from lifting his head_, Red Cross classes hissed.

Trying not to think about what she was doing, she plucked a Kleenex from the box on the lab table, bent back over, and pressed it to his nose. "Get any blood on my Club Banana shirt, Drakken, and you are in _such _trouble," she whispered, letting her upper lip curl.

Huh. Close up, his face was round and young, with ears jutting out like open car doors. He kind of looked like Ron. That sent her lip back down. She didn't particularly _want _to be having those kinds of thoughts about her arch-nemesis, but there they were in the head anyway.

Ron himself, who wasn't really _terribly _fond of the sight of blood, draped the blanket over Drakken. About two feet of comforter billowed uselessly on each side of him, and her best friend rested the Kleenex box on one side. "There," he said happily. "All done."

Not quite. She snatched Drakken's phone off what she guessed was his desk and put it down on the other side of the blanket. "That way, if he's really hurt, he can call Shego when he wakes up," she explained to Ron's bewildered expression. "I mean, I don't especially want to bring an ambulance over here."

Though if he didn't start moving soon, she just _might_.

Ron halfway nodded and grinned his sloppy grin. "Aww, look at 'im, KP. He's so cute when he's sleeping."

She took several steps backward and shook her head. "Okay, that was just disturbing."

"Just kidding." Ron shrugged. "Mostly. I mean, he does look pretty - I dunno - harmless like this. You wouldn't think he was all evil and stuff."

"I don't think anyone looks evil when they're unconscious, Ron." Even Shego probably didn't sleep with venom spewing from her eyes and plasma on the tips of her fingers. She'd never really thought about it before.

They stood there for a minute in silence that felt so weird in a villain's lair. The only thing weirder was the fact that there was no hatred here. Not in Drakken's slack face or Ron's head-tilt or her own heart.

The moment was broken suddenly when Drakken groaned softly and twitched one arm. "He's waking up," she hissed, grabbing Ron's arm and towing him toward the door. "Let's go."

The last thing she heard before she shut the door behind her was Drakken's voice, rusty and weak, muttering, "Shego. I have a _major _boo-boo."

Ron and Rufus, naturally, crowed "Boo-yah!" and immediately began to plan a celebration dinner at Bueno Nacho. She sighed and felt that delicious sense of peace-slash-triumph that always came from completing a mission.

And told herself that, as soon as she saw Drakken conscious again, as soon as she swooped in to foil his next evil plan, everything would be back to normal.


	48. Food

Dr. D to the Mouse House, yo.

**Food**

Shego lets the door slam behind her, rattling the lair's windows and making him flinch. "Well, fine then!" he hollers at the door just in case she's still within hearing distance. "_Be _that way!"

No answer. Humph. He flops down onto the little squishy foot-propper-upper that sits at the base of his Thinking Chair and puts his chin in his hands. This has been a really, really, really awful day, the kind of day that would have been better if he spent the whole thing in bed.

And of course it ended with Shego and him having a fight. Not a fight-fight - she didn't punch him or zap him with her evil glowiness - but a very loud argument. Lots of screaming, and not just from him. He accused her of not supporting his evil plan, because she _wasn't_, and she said it was because his plan wasn't worth supporting. He said that didn't matter - and not to change the subject - and not to get all smart-mouthed with him.

Shego didn't listen to any of the above and said maybe he'd be a lot closer to taking over the world if he actually found out what government weapons _did _before he stole them. Doesn't she know he _tries_? It's not like you can Google those kinds of things!

Of course, maybe that wasn't a completely random thing to yell at him for. They'd just stolen a top-secret package being shipped to Fort Knox that turned out to be a coffee maker. A really shiny coffee maker with a lot more knobs than the ones they sell at Smarty Mart, but not the kind of thing that strikes fear into the hearts of the populace.

But Kim Possible still showed up and gave him a wedgie for his trouble - no one's done that to him since _high school_. And Shego wouldn't fix it no matter how much he begged her. He had to do it himself at home after an incredibly uncomfortable hovercraft ride back.

To top it all off, he didn't even get to keep the coffee maker. Shego said he's energetic enough without caffeine. Well, actually, the term she used was "hyper," which sounds like an insult. He ponders that as he jitters his feet against the ground to make his knees bounce.

They say things like, _You'll never take over the world, you loser. Why bother? _Or, _Drakken, stop. Go home and quit trying to be something you're not. _He hates both kinds equally, even if the second type is softer and not as nasty-sounding. If he listens to either of them, he'll never conquer anything, and that would be the worst thing of all.

So instead he tries to listen to one of the zillion other thoughts that bounce around his brain, plots that won't stay still long enough for him to think them through. _Giant robots!_

_Dinosaurs!_

_Killer breath mints!_

_Evil lobster army!_

_Shrink the world - _

_Expand the world - _

_Control the - _

_No, blow up - _

_No, be more subtle._

_Steal - _

_Invent - _

_Conquer, conquer, conquer._

_Steal/invent a robot/Doomsday device/ super chemical that could peel paint off walls/ mind control chip - _

Everything sounds better than the one before it, and it's hard to grab onto just one. So many times he's found himself knee-deep in blueprints with a migraine headache and no idea what he's doing.

So, yeah. Maybe he just needs some time to relax and let his poor, overworked body unwind. But there's nothing good on TV, and he's already read all his comic books _and _Shego's magazines (which make no sense to him whatsoever) and his back hurts too much for a game of Twister with the henchmen.

Cards! They could all play cards together.

He slips off the foot-propper-upper onto the floor and cranes his neck around the corner to see the henchmen's quarters. He sighs - nope, the lights are out, so they must have already gone to bed.

Solitaire? No. He's grumpy, and trying to match red cards to black cards and forgetting whether you're supposed to place fives on six or fours would only put him in an even worse mood. He scowls at the ceiling. This is all Shego's fault for not being a good supportive sidekick.

He gets up and wanders into the kitchen. Might as well see what they have in the pantry.

What he sees on the bottom shelf makes him grin from ear to ear. Cookies! A brand-new, never-been-opened box of sugar cookies, the kind with frosting and sprinkles.

Finally, something is going his way.

He yanks the box out of the pantry and rips the sticker off the opening with his amazing villainous strength. The lid opens automatically when he does that, and the cookie smell drifts up into his nostrils.

_Ahh._ He breathes in so deeply, even his lungs smell frosting. No mind-control chemical compound has ever smelled that good.

He puts the box down on the floor and examines it thoroughly before selecting the biggest cookie, the one with the most frosting and just the right amount of sprinkles. He plucks it out of the box, holds it up to his mouth, and takes a huge bite. The most wonderful bite in the world.

_Ohhhhhhhhh, _yeah. He feels better already. How can you not smile when your mouth is full of that sweet taste?

Some of the frosting falls out from between his lips, but his tongue catches it and sweeps it back into his mouth. Cool - kind of like his mouth is a dungeon and the frosting is a bunch of rebellious prisoners trying to escape. And his tongue is a ruthless guard!

Yes. That was a very evil thought, and he's proud of it. He sighs happily and takes another bite, chewing a little slower to savor the taste.

The moon shines in the kitchen window and makes a little square of light on the floor. Hmm - the moon. He licks his lips, getting more frosting off them, and thinks about that. The moon is awfully important. Maybe - maybe if he blew up the moon, people would finally see that he's a force to be reckoned with! (Whatever "reckoned with" even _means_.)

Chew. Chew. Chew. Swallow. Bite. Chew. Chew.

The cookie's soft. Warm and soft in a way that makes him feel safe somehow. There must be some scientific explanation to that - it's stimulating something in his brain - somewhere - but he doesn't care right now. He doesn't feel safe often, and he's lovin' it.

Swallow. Bite. Chew. Chew. Chew. Munch. Gulp. Gobble.

So, once the moon has been reduced to space dust, maybe Shego will finally respect him. He takes an even bigger bite in his excitement. Yeah. Maybe she'll finally stop telling him that he's acting like a moron.

She told him that just today and it made him feel like she kicked him. She's not supposed to use you-messages like that, he remembers from his college psychology class. She's supposed to use I-messages.

He told her that, because he was sure once she knew that, she'd be able to communicate her feelings to him without hurting his. It was a brilliant idea, but Shego just rolled her eyes and said, "Well, you use you-messages all the time."

"See, that's another you-message!" he cried. Why wasn't she getting the point? "Just try an I-message. You know - I feel. . . when you. . ." See, he gave her a starting place and everything.

Her reply? "Okay, okay. I feel like smacking you up the side of the head when you act like a moron."

That might have technically been an improvement, but it still seemed rude.

Swallow. Chew. Bite. Lick off icing. Crunch sprinkles. Yep. He's definitely going to have to do a scientific study on the effects of cookies on happiness. Maybe he'll find something no one else has never noticed before - and he'll get famous - and respected - and he won't have to take over the world after all -

He pauses halfway through licking frosting off his index finger and shakes his head. He cannot believe he just thought that. _The world, Drakken. The power. The control. _That_'s what matters. _

The little itch in his chest gets even itchier. He needs another cookie.

Munch. Munch. Swallow. _Ahhh_. That's better.

There was a message on the answering machine from the doctor's office when he got back to the lair tonight, after the coffee maker incident. It was a you-message, as in, _you-have-an-appointment-in-two-days-because-it's-almost-flu-season-and-you-need-a-shot._

He grimaces around his mouthful of cookie. He _hates _shots. Hates them with a burning passion (definitely a phrase he likes; it sounds so wicked). It's not that he's _scared _of them, exactly. They just. . . hurt, and he doesn't like to hurt.

Who does?

Gobble. Scarf. Swallow.

Of course, if he doesn't get the shot, he'll get the flu, guaranteed. It's a scientific fact - every year, Dr. Drakken will wake up exactly two weeks into flu season, just like clockwork, and feel like he accidentally used every single Doomsday device he's ever created on himself. And it's incredibly annoying, because he's too tired to conquer the world, and last time Shego dragged him to the hospital just because he was running an _itty-bitty _102-degree fever.

He drags his finger along the ridges inside the box where the cookies used to be to get the extra frosting and sprinkles and pops it into his mouth. It's halfway back out when he suddenly realizes exactly what he just did and freezes.

Except for a few globs of frosting and a bunch of stray sprinkles, that brand-new box of cookies is empty now. He did it _again_. How many were there? Six? Eight? Twelve?

Dizzy, he lowers himself to the ground - yeah, that's better - and lays down on his back, holding the cookie box up in the air to examine it. "Eight sugar cookies," says the label. Luckily, the nutrition facts were on the sticker that sealed the box - the one he tore off and threw away. That way Shego can't rattle off how many calories he just consumed and then stomp off in disgust muttering that it's a miracle he doesn't weigh four hundred pounds considering he eats like he's trying out to be the next host of Man vs. Food.

Yeah. She'll probably still yell at him if she sees the box. He needs to get rid of it, but his arm won't stretch all the way to the trash can, and he doesn't especially feel like - _urp _- getting up right now.

Mustering all his strength, he lifts his head and shoves the cookie box under it. There. Now he at least has a pillow. And it's surprisingly comfortable.

He yawns then, watching in fascination as his mouth stretches almost off his face. His belly doesn't _hurt_,exactly, but it's very full and very warm. And his eyes feel really, really droopy, like someone put magnets on his eyelids. He doesn't happen to have a Doomsday device that can fight magnetism yet.

You know, he probably shouldn't destroy the moon, considering it controls the tides and stuff like that. He doesn't particularly want to rule a flooded planet. Maybe - maybe if he shrinks the moon and holds it hostage - refuses to give it back and set the tides right unless the world is handed over to him.

Yeah. Sounds good. He even had a shrink ray once, before Commodore Puddles decided to use it for a fire hydrant. (Well, use it the way _dogs _use fire hydrants, which is very different from the way people use them.) He's not sure if it's fixable or if he'll need to make a whole new one.

__

Get up, Drakken. Go check. The world's not gonna conquer itself.

He raises his head all of two inches, but it flops back down onto the cookie box. Ohhh. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.

Maybe - maybe he can close his eyes just for a minute. His vision goes blurry as his lids lower. Yeah. Just a minute.

The moon will still be there when he opens them again.

NOTE: Yes, I got the "shrink-the-moon" idea from _Despicable Me_. Which you must see. Now.

(It's an awesome movie, it's very cute, and you'll probably love it if you like Drakken. Thus ends the shameless promotion.)


	49. Danger Ahead

No one in this story is mine. :(

**Danger Ahead**

He wakes.

For a few desperate, fleeting moments, he wants to roll over, plant a pillow over his head, and go back to bed - something he hasn't done in a quite long while. Come to thinks of it, he hasn't slept at all for a long time, much less the four whole hours he got last night.

Somehow it feels like less, though. His sleep was restless and fitful, haunted by dreams of _Fraulein_ Possible in her uber-suit, the sleek, shiny, blue-and-white one. The one that stretches like rubber, heals itself as if it is by magic, has the amazing hand-thing that he can't even begin to describe.

It's all the power he needs to conquer the world - all wrapped up in one little jumpingsuit. And _she _has it.

He stomps into the kitchen, pounding his feet on the ground to alert his henchmen to his not-so-great mood. He smashes his fist into the palm of his other hand, grinding as hardly as he can, as if he is smashing _Fraulein _Possible herself.

What a wonderful idea that is. That unfairly talented, uber-suited, sassy teener meeting her demise at the hands of one of his machines. Or his own two handses, or whatever else he can find. He will do her in with poisoned sauerkraut if he has to.

The important thing is getting rid of _Fraulein_ Possible, for once, for all. And unlike _some_ people, he will not look away.

His henchmen look up when he enters the kitchen, and they all snap to attention at once. The sizzling feeling starts, deep down in his soul. It feels good to have such control over them, such power. They're frightened of him - terrorfied of him - and would do anything to avoid his wrath.

It feels good, but it's not enough. Not _nearly _enough.

At least, though, they are still loyal and faithful, hardworking and, most importantly of all, intelligent. _Some _people's henchmen can't count past three.

"Boss?" one of them asks, holding out a pastry. "

Strudel?"

His stomach churns at the thought. "_Nein_," he mutters, more to himself than to. . . whichever henchman this is being. The battle-suit thoughts are taking up every inch of him, so there's no room for food, no room for sleep, no room for anything.

He thirsts for more power.

"Hey, look, BIL!"

Okay. They are all intelligent, except for Myron. But what is he supposed to do? He cannot exactly turn his brother-in-law out into the cold. Hildegarde would have his head on a platter.

"What is it, Myron?" he barks. Cannot he see that he is a horrible mood? Does not he know to avoid him when he's like this?

"You're on the news, BIL!" Myron continues, pointing at an Internet headline.

Curiosity gets the best of him, and he moves in, trying to ignore Myron breathing

strudel-breath in his face. "FAMOUS COLLEGE-AGED HERO, KIM POSSIBLE, DEFEATS THE NOTORIOUS PROFESSOR DEMENTOR YET AGAIN," the headline blares.

The fire starts in him again. "Well, rub it RIGHT IN MY FACE, why do you not?" he bellows to the computer screen. "At least I have not GIVEN UP like SOME PEOPLE!"

"That's right, boss," one of his henchmen soothes.

"That's right, boss."

"That's right, boss."

They all take up the chant, and it only fuels the fire. But that's a good thing. The fire burning in his heart is what makes him pound on the stairs, slam his fists into his palm and pretend it's _Fraulein _Possible's head, what keeps him a villain.

The anger is what keeps him evil. Being out of control is what keeps him in control. The rage consumes him, and, while it's not exactly comfortingble, it works. It's his passion. It drives him forward, keeps him going on little sleep and less food. Once the battle-suit belongs to him, then the world will soon follow.

_Then _he'll take a nap.

He's watched the supervillain community around the world grow and change over the years. For a while, he seemed to be the only one in the business, minus Duff Killigan, who did not dream of world domination, at least in the traditional sense. He simply wanted to cover it with grass seed and turn it into the world's biggest golf course.

Then there came the day when Jack Hench introduced him to another villain, brand-new to a life of villainy, also claiming to be a mad scientist, also bent on world domination. Deep down, he knew the man wasn't copycatting his - his - his "gig," as they say in the _Englisch_, but it was too similar for his comfort.

This new villain claimed to be close to his own age, but he sure looked like a teener - bone-thin and pale, blinksing wildly against contacts he obviously hadn't gotten used to yet. He looked like a scared child entering his first baking-soda volcano into a science fair.

His instinks turned out to be right on the money - the man acted like a kindergartener. He threw tantrums. He whined. And he could not understand why his ridiculous, over-complicated schemes did not bring the world into his control.

The villain community grew, though. Soon others were joining, from the Seniors, who had simply too much time on their handses, to Drakken's own new hench_woman_, Shego. She was nearly at his own level of the evil, and also very pretty, the best possible combination for a henchwoman. Why she worked for that - what did Drakken call _Fraulein _Possible's boyfriend? - that buffoon instead of a competent, powerful villain like him, he will never be knowing.

And now the villain community is suddenly shrunken again. The Seniors got bored with villainy and sort of trickled off to pursue other hobbies. . . and then Drakken, the traitor, saved the world from the spidery-machines.

That set off the whole thing like a matchbox car on gasoline. Drakken reformed. . . and so did his cousin. . . and some man named Frugal Lucre, who he had never seen until the award ceremony, which Drakken had oh-so-foolishly invited him to. What, did he expect his rival to be happy for his success? Something is very wrong with his brain.

Then Shego, to everyone's complete surpriseness, slowly reformed, too. Monkey Fist is croaked, DNAmy was hardly ever a villain to begin with. . .

He is one of the few villains left. _Fraulein _Possible probably loves that.

"Hey, BIL!" Myron is screaming in his ear again.

He has almost grown fond of that term, standing for "Brother-In-Law." Today, though, it is only annoying him. "WHAT, MYRON?" he hollers.

Myron raises his eyebrows. "Watch your blood pressure, okay, BIL? I clicked on this linky. . .thing, and it took me to Kim Possible's website!"

He can feel his blood boiling in his veins. "I have been on _Fraulein_ Possible's website many times, Myron," he snarls through teeth that won't come apart. "All it does it MAKE ME ANGRY!"

"Yeah, but did you ever see _this_?" Myron points.

He leans in despite of himself. And he feels his eyeballs nearly spring from their sockets.

"Hosted in Middleton," it reads in itsy-bitsy letters at the bottom of the screen.

Her _house_. The uber-suit must be still locked up, safe and sound, in her bedroom closet, behind all those silly teener-girl dress and such things.

And, with one quick blow from a machine of destruction, it will be all his.

Power tingles his soul.

"Casing the joint," they call it in heisting films - when someone thoroughly examines the exterior (and maybe even perhaps the interior, if they can be so lucky) of the building they are about to break into. Then they come back the next day or the next week, break in, and walk out with the money.

Or, in this case, an uber battle-suit of victory.

This time, though, he never makes it to _Fraulein _Possible's house. He's so busy concentrating on which of his many wonderfully terrible machines he will use to destroy her house that he runs into someone who is obviously not watching where he is going.

"Watch yourself -" he starts to bark, but stops when he realizes he's staring at a far-too-familiar blue lab coat.

The face that looks down at him is bug-eyed and one-eyebrowed and not a sight for sore eyes. "Dementor?" a voice yelps.

Drakken. The _buffoon_!

"What are you doing, Drakken?" he hisses, injecting more than a little bit of mocking into his voice. The blue boy will never fail to react.

Sure enough, Drakken props his hands on his hips. "I'm going home from work, for your information!" His eyes shine a little, in a way he has never seen them do before. "I work at Global Justice, now, you know."

He knows. He has heard. It is all over the newspapers. Jack Hench says if Drakken ever darkens his door again, he will throw him out. He has betrayed them all.

"Yes, I know," he answers. And a devious idea slowly begins to take shape in his brain - unfolding, slowly and precisely. He's sure Drakken's never experienced that sensation in his whole entire _life_! "What are you working on these days at Global Justice?"

Drakken folds his arms over his chest and shakes his head, bobbing his ponyish-tail. "Oh, no, you _don't_!" he cries, voice winding up like a tight spring. "I can't tell you! That's classified information!"

Oh, how righteous he sounds. That will make it even more satisfying when he knocks him down all these dozens of pegs. "You will not even tell your old friend, Dementor?" he oozes.

Drakken, the fool, sticks his tongue out at him. "Friend? I find that idea laughable!" He throws back his head and gives the same long, loud laugh he remembers from countless villains' conventions, only now it's missing the evil. "See?" his rival adds. "I laughed."

He smirks. "Oh. . . how charming."

Drakken slams a tiny foot into the ground so hard he is surprised he doesn't hurt himself. "Dementor, we weren't even friends when we on the same side of the law! We were _rivals_!" He glowers down at him. "And now that I'm a good guy, we're even _bigger _rivals! We might even be _enemies_!"

Before he can answer - the buffoon has gotten better with his retorts over the past few months - Drakken starts up again. "You hear that? En-em-ies!" With each syllable, he jabs a finger closer and closer to his nose. "And I will, never, never, EVER tell you about the immobilization ray I worked on at Global Justice today! _Ever_!"

__

And the dog's name was being Bingo.

Drakken suddenly springs backward several steps and plasters both hands to his mouth. "Did I - did I just say that out loud?" he asks, voice wobbly.

"_Ja_." He says it perfectly calmly. He knows from experience this will drive Drakken even crazier.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" Drakken grabs his hair in his hands like he's going to rip it straight out, turns, and bolts in the opposite direction. He can hear him yelping all the way down the street.

He doesn't need to case the joint now, he thinks as he heads back for his own lair. Someday, someday soon, he will break into Global Justice and get that immoblization ray. It should not be too hard, what with Drakken working there now.

And, to think, several months ago he was telling him he was better at saving the world then trying to conquer it. Now, if this little conversation is indicating anything, his rival is just as much of a failure at being a hero as he was at being a villain.

And once that ray in his grasp, he can simply freeze _Fraulein _Possible, right to her spot, and rip the battlesuit off with his bare handses. He knows his dreams will be sweet tonight.

If he ever, _ever _gets to sleep. . .

Several days later...

"Dr. Director - report from Field 320."

She looks up to see Dash DeMine literally filling her office doorway, one of Global Justice's tiny report slips nearly disappearing in his huge hands. "Thank you," she says as he hands it to her.

"We're also in need of a new practice target," Dash adds. "Our current one is damaged."

_By yourself, Crash, or Burn? _She doesn't let that slip out of her mouth _or _show in her eyes, but it's the first thing to materialize in her brain.

Dash and two of his co-workers, Crash Cranston and Burn Burnum, once fought crime under the name "Team Impossible." They were effective, but she never approved of the way they charged money for their services or the excessive force they used with the criminals they were stopping. Rumor had it the only reason they ever came to work for Global Justice several years ago was to appease Kim Possible, who supposedly had "dirt" on them that could get them into big trouble.

She knows it's important not to play favorites among her agents. The fact that the three of them get on her nerves isn't a crime. They perform well on the combat field, maybe a little _too _well. To say those men play rough is a severe understatement. Their eyes always gleam on the practice target as if they're seeing a supervillain there - and mentally disemboweling him.

All she says, though, is, "Very well, Mr. DeMine. I'll see what we have left in the stockroom."

Dash nods politely and turns to the door, where Crash and Burn are waiting for him, arms folded over their chests, faces in identical hard masks. The three of them turn to go, and she settles back into her chair, trying not to sigh too loudly.

_Field 320 _

_Practice Combat is going well. No signs of laziness of lethargy among these agents. Crash Cranston, especially, continues to excel in the area of emergency lifesaving techniques. However, Cranston and two other agents, Dash DeMine and Burn Burnum, have received numerous warnings for unnecessary roughness and overly violent behavior in their drills. All trainers are advised to keep close eyes on them._

_Also of note, our obstacle courses have proven to be entirely too easy for our new recruits - _

A raspy, panicked cry rises from directly outside her office. It doesn't sound like Dash or his sidekicks, and the tight little grunts that follow can only belong to one person.

Sure enough, she opens her door to find all three Impossibles staring, teeth clenched and eyes narrowed, at Dr. Drakken, whose own mouth and eyes are hanging open wide enough to house a whole colony of flies. "You guys _work _here?" he sputters.

Dash steps closer and pokes a finger toward Drakken, who dances away nervously. She can tell by the swelling skin under his eyes that a meltdown isn't too far away. Definitely a bad sign - he hasn't had one of those in several months. "_You _work here?" Dash booms back.

"Of course I do!" Drakken's voice spirals up defensively. "I've been working here ever since I reformed! Lowardian invasion? Saved the world? Mehhh - hello?" He waves his hands in the air frantically, as if that alone should stir up the right memories.

She places herself strategicallybetween Dash and Drakken and pushes them away from each other with the heels of both hands. That will at least get _Drakken_'s attention, what with his aversion to touch. "So, I gather you gentlemen have met?" she asks stiffly.

Drakken begins one of his infamous pouts. "We've met, but they're no gentlemen," he mumbles around his sagging lip. "They showed up at my secret Alpine lair and tried to blow the whole thing to Kingdom Come!" He folds his arms over his chest indignantly. "No, 'Hi, how are ya?', no 'Surrender, Dr. Drakken!', nothing! Just boom-boom-boom here-comes-your-doom."

"_He _-" Dash spits the word between his teeth and starts shredding Drakken with his eyes - "was attempting to dominate the world! You don't show those kinds of people mercy!"

She can't ignore the hatred in his voice. "If at all possible, you do," she says heavily. "Serious harm should be a last resort, not a first choice." How have they worked for Global Justice all this time without learning that?

Drakken edges closer to her, jutting his chin in Team Impossible's direction. "That's right," he agrees, voice bolder now that she's stepped in to defend him. "They punched me right in the stomach the instant I tried to run away. And they did it _hard_." He rests a hand gingerly on his midsection. "I'm surprised you didn't rapture my appendix."

"Rupture," Burn sneers.

"Enough!" she snaps. She doesn't raise her voice often - at least, not nearly as often as she's tempted to - so everyone's learned to jump to attention when she does. "We do not have room for petty rivalries at Global Justice. We're all on the same side now."

Evidently the four of them don't agree, because Dash, Crash, and Burn all have their fists clenched at their sides, eyes spewing hatred. Drakken's trying his hardest to meet their gazes, but his slim self barely comes up to their shoulders.

"Look at him!" Burn finally says. "He's not even wearing the Global Justice uniform."

"The scientists are allowed to wear lab coats if they prefer," she explains, trying to ignore the throb of annoyance starting in her temples. If they'd read the Global Justice handbook, they would already know that.

"What about his hair?" Dash points accusingly at Drakken's scraggly ponytail. "That can't be within the dress code."

"Do you still need me to retrieve a practice target from the stockroom or have you found one?" she asks calmly, injecting steel into her voice.

"We can't work with a supervillain," Crash spits in reply. She can practically _see _steam coming out of his ears.

"_Former _supervillain!" Drakken shrieks. "And I can't work with - with - with - bullies!" His voice is entering tantrum territory.

The voice that comes out of her own mouth is the quietest one she possesses, but she adds a pointy, disapproving edge. "Mr. DeMine. Mr. Cranston. Mr. Burnum. Dr. Drakken."

Four heads swivel around to look at her. Only Drakken looks the slightest bit ashamed.

Frankly, she's disappointed in all of them. Disagreements can and do happen at Global Justice, but she's never seen any of them turn so juvenile. "You do not have to agree with each other on everything. You don't even have to like each other. But I _do _expect you to treat each other with respect and courtesy as fellow agents. Do I make myself clear?" She draws up to her full height and pulls her voice taut and hard.

Four mumbled "yes"es. Four tight jaws that say the exact opposite.

"You are dismissed," she finally says. Dash, Crash, and Burn stalk away, arms tight at their sides, eyes locked straight ahead. At least they're obeying her orders, even if they don't show any signs of welcoming their coworker with open arms.

Drakken, for his part, watches them go, punching the air with his little fists. "Why, I oughta -"

She flinches inwardly at the image of him disappearing underneath three men all roughly the size of Mount Everest. If he keeps nursing this grudge, he's going to get himself killed. "Dr. Drakken, how tall are you?"

He shrugs a little too casually. "Five-foot-ten."

She raises one eyebrow.

". . .-nine," he corrects himself sheepishly.

"Right. And how much do you weigh?" she asks.

Drakken puffs out his chest. "One hundred and seventy-five. . . "

She raises her other eyebrow.

". . . forty-five," he admits, voice getting quieter. He pats his belly again. "But I'm working on it! Actually, Mother's working on it - "

She cuts him off before he leaves the conversation for one of his rabbit trails. "The members of Team Impossible are all six-foot-six exactly. I'd estimate their weights at around two hundred and fifty pounds each." She lowers both her eyebrows and smiles wryly. "Taking them on might not be such a good idea."

Drakken swallows hard and hooks his thumbs into the straps of his raggedy, ever-present blue backpack. "Oh," he squeaks. The fire leaves his eyes, and his shoulders sag. "I'm sorry, Dr. Director."

Now _those _are the best words she's heard all day. "There are just people that make me so - so - so -" Drakken flails his hands around helplessly, trademark noises popping out of him like a machine gun firing - "angry!" he finally finishes.

"I understand," she says sympathetically. "I have an evil twin, you know."

Drakken tilts his head to one side and purses his lips. "Ohh, right. Gemini. I've seen him at villain conventions."

Her backbone stiffens a little as he says it. Sheldon. The only person in the world who can reduce her to an eight-year-old with one little smirk or a "Remember when, Betty?"

"Evil _fraternal_ twin," Drakken keeps going. "You have to be fraternal to have different, you know, boy-girl-nnrrgh-gen- genders! Of course - " he stops and cocks his head to the other side, ponytail lurching. " - you do sort of look alike. But you're a lot prettier than him," he adds matter-of-factly.

Well, those are the second-best words she's heard all day, even if being prettier than her brother isn't that much of an accomplishment. "Thank you."

Drakken slaps a hand over his mouth. "Is that considered harassment?"

She can't help but smile. "No, that's considered a compliment."

"Okay." He shrugs happily, all traces of awkwardness gone. "And he's four minutes older and he never let any of us forget it."

Ugh. That's Sheldon all right. The smile slips off her face as she chimes in with, "Yes. He never lets _me _forget it, either."

"Are you going to fire me?" Drakken asks out of the clear blue sky.

"No," is all she can think of to say. "Why would I?"

"For being immature with those jer - uhh, Team Impossible." Panic winds Drakken's voice higher, and his eyes start to beg. "Please don't! If you fire me, I'll never get another job! Nobody else will hire me!"

"Because you're a former supervillain?" she asks.

Her employee nods frantically. "Yes. _And _I have ADHD! _And _dyslexia! _And _I bug the snot out of people!"

She chomps her tongue just in time to stop a chuckle. "That's what Shego says, anyway," Drakken adds thoughtfully, sounding slightly less hysterical for a moment.

"Well, you don't have to worry about stopping another employer's mucus production," she tells him. "I am certainly not firing you. You are both wanted and needed at Global Justice."

Drakken's entire body seems to spring upward. "Thank you!" he cries.

"You're quite welcome." She crosses back into her office and sits down at her desk. "As for Team Impossible -"

Drakken leans in toward her, quivering with excitement. "Yes?"

"Ignore them if possible. Respect them if necessary." She meets his eyes squarely. "And work hard so that everyone can see you _have _changed."

His eyes glow raw admiration at her. "Yes, ma'am," he coughs, snapping to attention and saluting. "Oh - and here."

Drakken digs into his pocket and pulls out a crumpled sheet of paper that she recognizes as a report slip. "Here's the report for Lab 591. It's why I came here in the first place." He holds out the paper to her and grins. "Bye."

_Lab 591 _

_Progress on the Immobilizer 2000, which has now been made portable, is coming along well. Teamwork is exceptional, even with the slightly less conventional members of the group. We are doing our best to squelch the rumors that occasionally arise from other labs that Dr. Drakken is a mole for the villains, attempting to smuggle technology out of Global Justice and into the wrong hands..._

NOTES:

*Writing for Dementor is fun. XD

*I've never read a fanfic that featured Team Impossible. . . I have a feeling there must be a few floating around out there, but I haven't found them yet. Heck, I'm not even entirely sure that I got their names right, even though I went back and rewatched the episode _and _checked the ever-so-reliable Wikipedia.

*I don't know if PengyChan is reading this, but if she is, I threw in the Gemini reference for her.

*TO BE CONTINUED. . .


	50. Seeing Red

As the new CEO of the Walt Disney Company, everyone is this story is MINE! You must get MY permission before writing any further fanfics!

(And I also own Warner Bros. and Scholastic and the entire planet of Neptune. . . )

**Seeing Red**

Today's been off to a really weird start.

He overslept - not a good thing - and then had to rush through breakfast so fast he barely had a chance to taste whatever it was he ate - some kind of cereal - and he put his clothes on a little too fast because when he started out the door his shirt was on backward and he had no pants - he's still not sure how that happened. So he got out of those and into his lab coat and checked the calendar to make sure it was a work-day after all, because if it wasn't, he would be a _very _Grumpy Gus.

Friday. That's a work-day, and it's the night he gets pizza and goes to karaoke. (It's a good day.) But today's a _special _Friday. It's National Appreciate Your Boss Day, which he read in the book of Weird and Wacky Facts Shego got him for his birthday.

So he grabbed the card he made for Dr. Director and stuffed it into his backpack along with a coloring book and his crayons (64-piece pack with the sharpener in back - very impressive), in case he had to wait awhile before she saw him. Then he jumped in the hovercraft and flew to work, yelling "Hi" to Shego when he passed her house. He made sure to remind her it was National Appreciate Your Boss Day, since he used to be her boss, after all.

Her reply was, "So - wait - am I appreciating you, or are you appreciating me?" Shego and her smart-alack. . . y. . . ness.

Once he got to Dr. Director's office, she was out in the hall, talking to one of the members of - uggghekkk - Team Impossible. Dash or Crash or Burn. One's a redhead, one's a brownhead, and one's black, but other than that, they all look the same. Some incredibly advanced and highly unethical method of cloning, no doubt.

So he waited for a little while, swinging his legs in a chair, but the talk went on for a long time, and after about ten minutes, he realized he _really _needed to go to the bathroom, so he sprinted down the hall. It's fine to run in the halls when there's an emergency, Dr. Director said once, and that was _definitely _an emergency.

But now he's done and feels much better, so he walks back out, waving his hands in the air to dry them off - the dryer was having problems - blew the gloves right off his hands - he'll fix it later today if he remembers - maybe he'll tie a string around his finger to remind himself -

_Whoa. _He stops halfway down the hall and presses both hands to his head to calm his hyperactive thoughts. Ever since he learned Team Impossible works for Global Justice, he's been really nervous, and when he's nervous, his brain goes so fast the rest of him can't keep up.

When he gets back to Dr. Director's office, she's sitting at her desk, and Dash-Crash-Burn is nowhere in sight. That's a good thing, because he doesn't want any of them seeing the card he got her. Not that he wrote anything _too _mushy - he's not proposing or anything - but he thanked her for helping him reform and being patient with him and just generally being so nice and making him feel like he didn't want or need to conquer the world anymore.

She smiles when she sees him, and he grins back. "Good morning, Dr. Drakken," she says. "You wanted to see me?"

He bobs his head up and down and rocks up on his toes, eager to have something go right today. "Yes!" he squeals. His voice goes way up out of acceptable indoor volume, and he tries to make it go back down. "I have something for you."

Dr. Director leans in. "Oh, really? What is it?"

"Well -" he takes a deep breath and gathers up the words in his head, hoping they're the right ones - "today is National Appreciate Your Boss Day, so I made you a card - since you're my boss and everything - well, you're _everybody's _boss here - anyway, it's just kind of a thank-you gift." He grabs the zippers on his backpack and yanks them in opposite directions.

A tiny piece of paper - one of Global Justice's report slips? - falls out and floats to the floor. Funny. He doesn't _remember _putting that there.

Huh. He picks it up and reads it.

And things go very, very wrong.

Dr. Drakken's To-Do List

1. Convince the good folks at Globall Justace to make the Immobilizer 2000 portible. That will make it much easier for me to steal. DONE.

2. When everyone leaves for lunch, smugle the machine out of the sceince labs. Do that today.

3. TAKE OVER THE WORLD! MUH-HAH-HAH

_Malfunction. Malfunction. Malfunction. Shutting down now. . ._

His hands start to shake so bad the paper falls out of them and lands on the floor. _Disappear, paper. Or spontaneously combust - I don't care! Just stop existing - somehow! And don't let Dr. Director pick you - _

"What's this?"

_- up. _What's going on? Could he have written it in his sleep? Did something evil take him over and make his hand write something he vowed he'd never write again?

One look at Dr. Director's face, and his chest squeezes so hard he's sure his heart is going to explode. She hasn't looked like that since the last time she got an e-mail from Gemini.

The room turns into a blur and the lights start making funny noises and someone is screaming, loud and scratchy and scared, "I didn't do it! That's not mine! Please believe me!"

"It certainly sounds like you," Dr. Director says, talking to the screaming person who must be him. "At least, the way you _used to_ sound."

He pants hard, trying to breathe, not to panic. He needs to find the right words, the right formula that will make everything okay again and take that awful look out of Dr. Director's eye. "I didn't do it! Please - I didn't! I would never - not anymore - _oooooooh_."

The conditions of his pardon jump back into his brain and he can't ignore them. _If you break the law again, you'll go to jail for the rest of your life. No parole. No bail. _

No kidding. If he can't make her believe he didn't do this - and how can he? It was in his backpack, it's the kind of thing he used to say - it even has his old laugh written on it. It sounds just like something he would do before, back when he was evil.

If he can't make her believe it - his life is over. Completely gone. Back to maximum-maximum-maximum-security prison, the closest thing on this planet to H-E-double-hockey-sticks. All his new friends, Mother being proud of him, not having nightmares and guilt and stomachaches -

"Just because I worked to help build that Doomsday device doesn't mean I'm going to steal it!" No, backspace. Stop that, mouth. Don't call it a Doomsday device.

Dr. Director's eyes narrow. "Dr. Drakken, I'm surprised at this. I really thought - "

"I _have _changed!" He can see his chest heaving angrily. How _dare _this thing appear in his backpack and try to ruin his life? How _dare _it? "It was a force of habit, saying that! I would never - "

"What seems to be the trouble here?" a deep voice asks.

He looks up - way up - into the face of Dash-Crash-Burn. The black one. He doesn't want him to know what the trouble is. He wants him to go far, far away and cease to exist. He wants the whole world to cease to exist -

No. No, no, no. That's the kind of thinking that made him become a villain in the first place. He can't think like that.

And with Dash-Crash-Burn here, he definitely can't do what he wants to do - which is curl up into the fetal position and put his hands over his head. This guy, with his bulging muscles and his hard eyes, looks just as mean as some of the men in prison.

"This is the trouble," Dr. Director explains, showing the paper to Dash-Crash-Burn. "It was found on Dr. Drakken's person, and it appears to be plans to use our equipment for world domination."

He's never been this angry. Ever. If someone can be made entirely out of the pure element of anger - which isn't even on the periodic table - then he is.

Dr. Director's eyes are disappointed - and doubtful - and shaming - and everything he thought he'd gotten away from when he reformed. The Team Impossible guy, though, has his arms folded over his chest and he's. . . _smiling_. The kind of smile that comes when you think you've almost taken over the world. The kind that makes you look evil, even in a Global Justice uniform.

"What did you really expect from a former criminal anyway, Dr. Director?" Dash-Crash-Burn asks. "People never really change, they say."

"NOOOOOOOOOOO!" he howls. Somewhere in the back of his brain he knows that wasn't calm and it'll just make things worse, but he can't help it. He feels like he just crashed _and _burned. Maybe even dashed, whatever that is.

"'Scuse me. Comin' through! I need to see Dr. D." It's another voice, and it belongs to the only person he wants to see right now. He's not exactly sure how Shego got here, but she's there anyway, glaring at Dash-Crash-Burn like he _isn't _nearly a foot taller than her.

Dr. Director turns around. "Yes?" she asks, sounding confused. Oh, right. She's a Dr. D, too. Any other time, that would be really cool.

Shego blinks for a second, then shakes her head. "No, not you. Him." She points at him, and he wipes spittle from his mouth and tries to breathe normally. If Shego's here, things will be okay.

Dash-Crash-Burn plants himself squarely in front of her, so that he has to strain his neck to see her. "Only immediate family is allowed to visit agents at GJ headquarters," he snarls.

Shego rolls her eyes like he's the biggest waste of space in the entire world. "I'm his sister, you dunce."

His chest loosens the tiniest bit. But before he can let himself be too relieved, Dash-Crash-Burn cracks his knuckles - wow, that is an annoying sound - and starts toward him, fists doubled.

Before his legs get the message to run for his life, Dr. Director puts out her arm and flings into the big guy's chest. "Mr. DeMine," she says, voice as professional as ever. "Do not attempt to hurt another agent unnecessarily."

DeMine - oh, so it's Dash - anyway, his eyes pop and he looks at Dr. Director like she's nuts. "Unnecessarily?" he booms. "But that paper - "

The anger in his brain moves over and makes room for that one tiny clear place, the one that told him how to save the world. Something's in it, and he blurts it out, hoping it's the right thing. "This isn't mine!" he cries furiously, grabbing the paper and shaking it in Dash's face. "I can spell science!"

There's a weird twinge in his neck, and the next thing he knows, a vine wraps up Dash DeMine and dangles him three feet above the ground. At the other end, the flower's cute little purple petals are stiff, like it's angry, too.

_Whoa. _He blinks and puts one hand to his neck, rubbing the vine. I _did that._

"Dr. Director!" Dash hollers. "He's attacking!"

Even though he hates to do it, he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. _Put him down, Flower. _

_But, master -_

_You'll get us both in a lot of trouble if you don't. Put him down and come back to Daddy._

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" he sputters as the vine drops Dash and retreats back into his neck. "They react to my emotions - I'll control them!"

Dr. Director barely nods at him. "See that you do, Mr. Lipsky."

Hoo-boy. He's only Mr. Lipsky when he's in big trouble.

Shego, by this time, has snatched the paper off the floor and is reading it, eyes narrowing the more they take in. "Sure doesn't look like Drakken's handwriting," she finally says. "You can actually read it."

The clear place opens up again, and he grabs the right words, flings them out of his mouth. "Please - you've got to believe me! I'm reformed now! I don't want to take over the world anymore! I've never been so happy in my entire life since I started working here! Why would I risk everything I have now to try and do something I stunk at?"

He stops talking and slaps both hands over his mouth to keep from whimpering. His insides feel like they're on fire - he's not sure if it's from anger or fear, but he knows he's about to cry. So he grabs Shego's sleeve and hopes she has some right words, because he used up today's supply.

"Exactly." Shego glares at Dash, like she's wishing _he _would spontaneously combust. "The dude is so reformed now, it's disgusting. He doesn't even jaywalk anymore."

Dr. Director rubs her chin like she's thinking - _please believe me. Please believe Shego._

Dash whirls on their employer. "Are you going to trust _her _word? She's a supervillain, too!"

He _really _wants to punch that guy.

"What part of 'reformed' is a foreign concept to you, Superman?" Shego's voice sounds as bored as ever. "I know Drakken better than his own mother does."

Dr. Director holds up both hands, and his lungs stop working. "Dr. Drakken, I very much want to believe you - and Shego - but - "

But? _But_? BUT? His chest is so hot, he's pretty sure he can breathe fire.

" - we just don't have enough evidence to either confirm or deny whether the note was actually written by you." She sighs and takes a step out into the hall. "Professor Ricardo?"

He breathes hard - no fire yet - and clutches Shego's sleeve even tighter. She doesn't pull away. He knows Professor Ricardo. He works in Lab 591 with him.

Dr. Director's voice drifts back to him. "Will you escort Dr. Drakken to the Interrogation Room and make sure he stays there until we know what to do with him?"

His stomach flips, burning the ulcer that's probably not healing anymore after today. The Interrogation Room. It's one-way soundproof - if you're inside, you can't hear what's going on outside, but everyone can hear _you_.

_Don't run, _the clear place tells him. _You'll look guilty._

Dr. Director takes him by one arm - gently, at least - and he stiffens, because his nervous system is still commanding him to run away from touch. Professor Ricardo takes his other arm and they lead him down the hall. He looks back over his shoulder. Shego's standing there, hands in tight fists at her sides.

_Don't leave me, _he mouths over his shoulder.

_I'm not, _she mouths back.

And she doesn't. She manages to convince Dr. Director to let them talk in the Interrogation Room for five minutes. Dash whines about that, but his employer points out that the room doesn't have any windows, just a chair and a desk, and they're guarding the only door.

"For your sake, Dr. Drakken," Dr. Director says as she pulls that same door closed behind her, "I hope you're telling the truth."

He barely parks his tailbone on the edge of the chair and jitters all over. He's still angry, but fear's creeping in, too.

"So - we only have five minutes. Talk fast." Shego puts her hands up like little walls on the desk and looks hard at him.

He closes his eyes to block out the light of the single bulb hanging from the Interrogation's Room ceiling. It's just like every other interrogation room he's ever been in - and it's the first step back to prison.

__

Prison. Diablos. Lucre. Throwing up. Lippy guards. No touching Mother. The way she cried. The way I cried. Other guys with fists and razor blades -

Only when Shego grabs his shoulders and yells, "Doc, stop!" does he realize that the horrible, strangled wheezing sound is coming from him.

"I can't go back, Shego," he hiccups. His legs are shaking so hard they're hitting the bottom of the desk. He presses his hands down on his knees to make them stop and tries not to picture those legs in jailhouse orange. "I can't. I'll die."

"I know, I know." Shego runs a hand back through her bangs, which he's never seen her do before. "Just try not to freak, okay? It makes everything five billion times worse."

It's really, really hard not to panic. His entire world is at stake here. "I never wrote that list," he says, gritting his teeth down hard and breathing through them slowly. That's the best way he's found so far to keep from crying. "I've never seen it before in my life, I swear!"

"Don't swear, Doc, it isn't becoming." Shego's mouth only twitches a little bit.

He slides all the way down in his chair. "What do I do?" he hears himself whimper.

Shego sighs, one of those up-from-the-toes things that makes him want to yawn. "I can't believe I'm saying this," she mutters. "But do you really believe prayer works?"

He nods automatically.

"Then - pray." Shego leans toward him, eyes more serious than he's ever seen them. "Pray your little blue butt off. Meanwhile, I'll -"

Her voice stops, and he finishes it for her. "You'll do whatever it is you do."

"Exactly." One side of her mouth curls up at him, then falls back. "Here." She hands him his backpack. "Color a pretty picture for me," she adds - sarcastically, of course. He savors it.

Once she's gone, he flips to the first page, grabs the biggest, reddest, angriest-looking crayon and scribbles the entire picture that color. Then he puts his head down on the table and sighs from his own toes.

"Are you there, God? It's me, Drakken. I need your help again. . ."

TO BE CONTINUED


	51. Through the Fire

The conclusion to my little trilogy. Hope y'all enjoy, and thank you to everyone who reviewed.

*Spot the _Darkwing Duck_ reference - win a cookie!*

**Through the Fire**

He sticks his crayon in his pocket and presses a hand to his tight, nervous chest. It's hard to concentrate on his coloring book when there are people deciding whether or not to ruin his life somewhere in the very same building. Even coloring all the people blue doesn't help.

Especially since - he runs his tongue over his lips, hoping to work up some saliva- he needs a drink of water badly. He's been trying to ignore it, but now his tongue is sticking to the roof of his dry mouth, which means the situation is desperate. Maybe if he asks Professor Ricardo really, _really _nicely, he'll let him go to the water fountain.

He opens the door and pokes his head out cautiously. "Um, Professor Ricardo?" he asks in his most polite voice. "I'm really thirsty. Would it be okay if - "

Huh. Professor Ricardo's slumped down in his chair, head nearly touching his chest, mouth gaping open. How can he sleep at a time like this?

Cold shivers creep up his spine, and he's not really sure why. Maybe if he heads over to Lab 591, he can find one of his other colleagues and tell them his guard fell asleep - and Dr. Director will see that he didn't try to make a break for it - and realize that he really _is _good now and the list in his backpack couldn't possibly have been written by him -

Something's wrong. Lab 591 is way too quiet, even for a room without him in it. When he knocks, no one answers.

Well, at least Dr. Director's the only one who can lock the labs. He turns the doorknob - its squeak sounds like a scream in the silence - and walks in. And stares.

His colleagues - his _friends _- are all asleep, sprawled in very awkward positions with their arms and legs going in all directions. The Immobilizer 2000 rests carelessly in the middle of the table. None of them would ever leave it unprotected.

And what are the odds that all the scientists in this lab would suddenly get tired and fall asleep, all at the same time? Not very good. Something smells here - actually smells. He sniffs the air and recognizes it.

Knockout gas. Fading and weak - duh, or else he'd be unconscious right now - and a slightly different odor than the kind he used to use, but he'd still know it anywhere.

The

Immobilizer 2000, he realizes with a start, is _portable _now. If someone - somehow - managed to get past the Global Justice guards - and knock out the scientists in the lab - they could just tuck it right into their coat and walk out with it, though it would make a very suspicious lump. And someone - the thoughts are whirling through his brain almost too fast for him to catch up - someone must be trying to do that _right now_!

Well, he won't let them. This is his baby - he _named _it, for crying out loud. Heart still thrashing around wildly, he stomps across the room, snatches up the

Immobilizer 2000, and cradles it to his chest. "It's okay," he whispers soothingly to its wonderful shiny surface. "I won't let them hurt you."

"Still talking to unanimated objects, _dumbkompf_?"

His neck jerks straight up in panic. He knows that voice - that _you-are-dust-particles-between-my-toes _tone and that German accent.

Dementor. Here. In GJ HQ. Trying to steal the Immobilizer 2000, _his _Immobilizer 2000!

He looks down into his rival's squarish, yellowish face and tries not to look even half as scared as he feels. He's not really sure where the words come from, but they're in his brain, so he blurts them out. "My friends call me Doc. _You _can call me Dr. Drakken."

Dementor gapes for a minute, mouth hanging practically off its hinge, and he tingles in triumph. Yes! Score one for the blue team!

"So," Dementor finally says lazily, "you are improving with ze retorteds, eh? Not that it's going to be of any assistance!"

The tangled English breaks further in his fearful brain, but something shoves its way to the front. Something that makes perfect sense and - and - and _infuriates _him. "You wrote that note, didn't you?" he demands.

"Vat note?" Dementor seems genuinely confused.

Well, that won't fool him. "Don't play dumb with me, Dementor!" he snaps back, anger roaring in his ears. "_You're _the one that framed me! You're the one trying to get me fired so you can steal the

Immobilizer 2000 and ta-ta-take - take over the world!" Those words feel weird in his mouth - rusty from not being said in so long.

Dementor's eyes snap. "Ohhhhh, Drakken," he says, voice so demeaning that every hair he has stands on end. "I do not have the slightest clue what you are talking about, but I am not trying to put you in the fire." His mouth curls into a cruel smile. "Matter of facting, I _vant _you here at Global Justice. It makes my job that much more easy!"

It seems to take forever for his brain to unscramble all that. But in a way, it's not long enough before he realizes what he's saying: that he's so incompetent, his presence makes it _easier _for Dementor to steal the Immobilizer 2000. His pride deflates like a stepped-on balloon.

_Think-Drakken-think, _his mind commands him, chugging along at nearly the speed of light. _If-you-were-Dementor-what-would-you-be-doing? You-can-beat-him-because-you-can-think-like-him!_

He closes his eyes, pants, and tries to pretend he's evil again. _Well, I'd use the knockout gas - just like he did. And then I'd walk right in, get this thing, and walk right back out - because - because - because - _

It comes to him as he opens his eyes, but not in words. In ideas of himself swaggering into the room, grabbing the Immobilizer 2000, and then sauntering back out, his ego refusing to consider that anyone could stop him, so he doesn't bother with the buttons you push to page security -

That's it! All he has to do is push that button, and dozens of Global Justice agents will burst through the door and come to his aid. Only problem is Dementor's looking right at him with _don't-you-dare _written all over his face.

_Oh - help_.

"So," Dementor holds out his hand and wiggles his fingers, "just hand it over and I will be being on my way."

Right. And he's the _dumbkopf_, whatever that is. "Why in the name of Victor Frankenstein would I give this to you?" he asks, narrowing his eyes.

"Because -" Dementor's own eyes are gleaming, and his stomach gives an uneasy rumble. "- when I dominionate the world, I will give you Canada."

_Canada. _He's always wanted Canada. In fact, if he's not mistaken, that Drakkcanadian flag with his face on it is still in his bedroom, somewhere.

And he steps forward, magnetized by that thought. Ohhh, Drakcanada. . .

_NO!_ he screams inside, stopping in his tracks so fast his shoes squeak. _What am I DOING? _

He closes his eyes again and sees more pictures. Himself in prison, curled up and miserable and half-dead. No. He doesn't want to go back there.

People he's never seen before cheering for him at the UN ceremony, the respect he's waited for all his life shining in their eyes. The start of his new life, twenty-five-million times better than the old one.

And the clear part of his brain spells out a plan for him, just like it did the night of The World-Saving Event. It's a plan he doesn't want to pull off, though. It's a sacrifice-plan.

He takes a deep breath and lets his eyes open. But it's the only way.

"Vell?" Dementor's voice goes higher, which means he's _really _getting angry. "I am _vaiting_!"

"Here, Dementor," he says, breath choking out. He puts the Immobilizer 2000 on the floor and, silently apologizing to it, gives it one big push toward Dementor. "You can have it - "

"- if you can fix it!" Huge breath. He slams his foot straight down into the middle of his great invention, pushing on it with all the strength a five-foot-nine-inch, one-hundred-forty-five-pound body can hold. He's not looking - he can't watch himself destroy what he's worked so hard to create - but several snaps and crunches tell him he's successfully totaled at least part of it. So does the sagging, crumbling metal he can feel under his foot.

Oooooh. For a moment, it almost doesn't seem worth it - until he looks at Dementor, who's gaping like he just announced he was engaged to Kim Possible. "You - you destroyed your own machine!" he cries.

"No duh," he replies drolly. A smug smile starts across his face; turning the tables on Dementor is _fun_. "You see, I'm smart enough to fix it."

Dementor curls his lip, and it's most unbecoming. "Vell, so am I."

That's true, but it doesn't matter. "Not in thirty seconds," he replies, reaching over the lab table, fingers straining for the security button. "I'm calling security!"

Dementor advances on him - he mentally wills his fingers to grow three inches. Oooh-boy. His arch-enemy's eyes are in glittery little slits. "You vill never get ze chance."

He forces himself to chuckle nervously. Dementor's at least six inches shorter than him, but he probably outweighs him by - by - by - well, quite a bit. "Really?" he laughs in a voice that's a lot higher than he means for it to be. "What are you going to do?"

Dementor answers that question very quickly by flinging out his arm and smashing his fist right into his jaw. His teeth clench down instinctively, directly on his tongue.

__

Pain! Lots of it! In more than one place!

He staggers backward, vision swimming. He's been hit! Mayday, mayday, mayday! A horrible taste fills his mouth - like sucking on a dirty penny, only saltier.

He staggers backward, vision swimming. He's been hit! Mayday, mayday, mayday! A horrible taste fills his mouth - like sucking on a dirty penny, only saltier.

Sure enough, he spits a reddish glob into his hand. Blood. How do vampires stand it?

That thought gets flung aside as his clear place realizes something. If Dementor says he's never going to get the chance to call security - and he's beating him up - than he must be planning to - to - to -

There are no plants in this room, and he's too scared to remember how to grow his own. So he does the only thing he can do. "HELP!" he hollers at the top of his lungs, just before he gets thunked in the eye.

Dementor pulls his fist back a third time, but it never gets a chance to land. He falls to the ground in a tangle of arms and legs and hair and green plasma that he can barely see through his swelling eye.

_Shego._ She must be his guardian angel or something.

"Where's your hall pass, dude?" Shego hollers over Dementor's yelps of protest.

"He doesn't have one!" he yells back, which is hard to do with his lower lip inflating by the second. "He was trying to steal the Immobilizer 2000!"

"And he broke it?" Shego asks.

"No!" He'd shake his head, but it really hurts right now. "I did that - to keep him from getting his hands on it!"

"Underhand me _this instant_!" Dementor squalls.

Shego zaps him - not too hard, but hard enough, he knows from experience. "Shut up, Demented," she mutters, pinning his arms firmly to the ground. "You're in deep doo-doo."

She jerks her head at him. "Come give me a hand, will you, Dr. Bushroot?"

Head still spinning, he swipes his mouth on his sleeve and tiptoes across the room. _Excuse me, Flower, _he begins softly.

_Yes, master?_ it answers.

That feels really good on his popped pride. _Tie up the yellow guy, please. _

_Absolutely. _

The vine sprouts, tingling his neck, wraps Dementor up, holds him tight. Shego hesitantly climbs off him, and the cute little purple flower stands at attention. _I won't let him escape, master. You can count on me._

He chuckles affectionately; they're so loyal. _I know you won't. You're a hard worker._

Sheer happiness radiates from the flower, and he understands. That's exactly how he felt when Dr. Director said those same words to him.

Speaking of Dr. Director, she bursts in the door, the one eye that's not patched wide with questions. Dash, Crash, and Burn are right behind her. "What in the world is going on here?" she demands.

Dash's eyes go straight to the remains of his masterpiece, and his own eyes well up. Doing the right thing can be _so very _hard. "He's destroyed the Immobilizer 2000!"

"Yeah, uh-huh." Shego turns an unamused expression on him. "If he hadn't, Professor Dementor here would be runnin' around with it. And that's kind of a bad thing."

He hides a snicker behind his hand. Good ol' Shego and her good ol' sarcasm.

Dr. Director steps toward him, over the broken pieces, and he peers cautiously at her. She's a little bit shorter than him, but right now she looms large. At least she doesn't have that angry look on her face anymore.

"Dr. Drakken?" she asks softly. "You destroyed a machine you spent hours of work on?"

Oooh. She's rubbing it in, and it prickles his shoulder blades. "Yes," he mutters.

She points at his face, stopping just short of touching. "You're bleeding."

Huh. He forgot about the pain until that very moment. "He hit me right in the chin - Dementor did," he replies, hurt tongue inspecting his damaged lip. "I just bit my tongue is all."

"That's not the only place," Dr. Director says. Her voice is still soft, but it's tight with fury - and he doesn't think it's at him. "That eye is going to be a beautiful shade of black and. . . "

She trails off, and he doesn't want to let her look stupid (he hates it when that happens to him). "Purple," he supplies helpfully. "I bruise purple."

"Yeah, and you're sure gonna." Shego glares at Dementor until he half expects plasma to shoot out of her _eyes_. "Anyone want to call 911 on this guy before I decide to punish him myself?"

"Dr. Director!" the black Dash-Crash-Burn snaps from across the room. "If I may remind you, _Drakken_ is still under strict surveillance for suspected treason!"

He says his name like he's talking about the devil himself. (At least it's in English.) He shudders closer to Dr. Director, whose eye trusts him again.

"I only left," he explains around his rubbery fat lip, "because I was in dire thirst! When I went to talk to Professor Ricardo, he was doing _this _- " He drops to the ground, hangs his tongue out of his mouth, and throws every limb in a different direction.

"Attractive." He can hear the chuckle in Shego's voice.

" - so I went to tell someone else he was asleep," he continues, opening his eyes and pulling his tongue back in. "Only everyone in Lab 591 was like that, and then Dementor started saying I needed to give him the Immobilizer 2000 or he'd, like, kill me or something." He scrambles to his feet and nods three times to give his words the needed importance. "He knockout-gassed all the guards."

"And you destroyed that machine you adored rather than let him use it for evil?" Dr. Director sounds like she's so amazingly happy she can't believe it. He knows that feeling. He gets it a lot lately.

He nods and swallows the lump in his throat. Poor Immobilizer 2000. . . his baby. . .

His employer turns around and gives Team Impossible a Look that should send them all crying for their mommies. "Dr. Drakken is no longer under suspicion," she says sternly.

YES! He pumps his fist in the air. He's safe! He's not going back to jail! Life is right-side-up again!

"Why?" the redheaded Dash-Crash-Burn whines.

"That kind of sacrifice is completely at odds with anything he would need to help him accomplish the goals on that list," she answers. Her eye flashes at them. "He has just shown more heroic qualities today than you three have in all the years you've worked here."

Oooh. He grins to himself and lets that sink in. He's not just a reformed villain (who saved the world once) now; he's a full-fledged _hero_. His heart is so full it almost hurts.

"But that list was right in his backpack. How are we supposed to believe someone else wrote it?" the black Dash-Crash-Burn protests.

Something's wrong with what he just said. The clear place churns and groans and clanks and tries to figure it out -

_It was found on Dr. Drakken's person._

"How did you know it was in my backpack?" he bursts out.

The instant the words are out of his mouth, his cheeks heat up. He waits for Dr. Director to shake her head and say that she told them once he left the room, and he'll look like a _dumbkopf_.

But his employer's lips are pressed together so hard they're turning white. And Dash, Crash, and Burn all freeze like six-and-a-half-foot tall Popsicles.

"Well - " says the black guy.

"I - " adds the brown-haired guy.

"Um - " is the redhead's contribution.

He's never seen Dr. Director look so sad and so angry at the same time, and it matches the weird sensation in his own chest. "_You _guys!" he hisses between his teeth. He lowers his voice and savors its boom. "_You _wrote that list! _You _put it in my backpack! _You _tried to ruin my life!"

They stare at him like they've never heard him speak before. "Why?" Dr. Director asks, voice low and tight. "Why in the world would you do that to a fellow agent?"

"He is _not _a fellow agent!" the black guy thunders back. "He is a threat to global security! We were just doing our job to keep the world safe!"

That hurts worse than his jaw _or _his eye. "Dr. Director gave me a second chance," he says, trying not to whimper. "Why can't you?"

"And - " Dr. Director puts her hands on her hips - "if he had truly not changed, don't you think it would be only a matter of time before we found _actual _evidence of it? We are not a shoddily run organization."

A shrill snort reminds him that Dementor's still tied up on the floor. "You were not _that _hard to break into."

"Shut your strudel hole," Shego mutters.

Dr. Director keeps glaring at Team Impossible. "Mr. DeMine, Mr. Cranston, Mr. Burnum. Report to my office at once and do not leave under _any _circumstances. We have some questions for you."

Victory whips through him as the three of them slink off. Their heads are down, but their backs are stiff enough to show they're not ashamed. "Are you going to arrest them?" he asks Dr. Director.

She purses her lips again. "I can't say for sure right now, Dr. Drakken. I need to get their side of the story - not that I doubt you - "

_Ohhh, _that feels _great_. He wants to bottle this moment and keep it forever.

"- but it's important to hear them out, too." She pats his hand, and he doesn't even feel the need to panic. "They need help, just like you did."

Huh. That's hard to imagine.

Things kind of speed up into a blur then - one of the huge agents grabs Dementor. He retracts his vine. The big guy and Dr. Director get into this big legal talk about what to do with Dementor while he turns around and sees Shego standing there, turning her glowiness on and off boredly.

"Hi," he says, unable to think of anything else. "Sorry I couldn't make my plants - do their - thing - right away -"

Shego smirks and pats his shoulder, which he shakes off out of habit. "Don't sweat it. It usually takes a few years to get your powers completely under control."

Hmmm. Coming from her, that's comforting.

"Though -" Her eyes dance in that way that tells him she's teasing - "I did save you again. You _so_ owe me one."

He gives her his blue crayon.

Shego's lips twitch. "I'll treasure it always."

A stream of angry German makes him turn to the door, where Dementor's being led away by a couple of guys who are three times his size. "Do not think you have seen the last of Professor Dementor!" he cries. "My henchpeople will come break me out, and then I will -"

- _keep trying to take over the world, over and over and over and over and never be happy. _He knows how that feels - angry and frustrated and annoyed and hopeless and a little bit scared that you try to push to the bottom of yourself and ignore.

He can see everything he used to be in his rival's eyes, and for a moment, he doesn't hate Dementor anymore. He just feels sort of sorry for him.

Huh. Who would have ever thought?

Once Dementor's out the door, though, he remembers what he meant to do before all this trouble started. He turns to Dr. Director and grabs her hand. "Come on," he says, tugging her toward the Interrogation Room. "I have something for you!"

Professor Ricardo sits in the chair in front of the Interrogation Room, looking incredibly confused. "Dr. Director? Dr. . . Drakken? What _happened_?" he asks.

"Oh, good!" he squeals happily. "You're alive!"

Professor Ricardo blinks. "Dr. Director?" he repeats.

"It's a rather long story," Dr. Director sighs. "But, rest assured, everything is under control."

"Can you explain _after _I give you my card?" he begs. He's waited so long, five more minutes will surely kill him.

She says yes, so he digs it out of his backpack and hands it to her and dances around in place while she reads it. That uneasy feeling is back in his gut. What if she doesn't like it? What if it's too sappy for a professional relationship? What if he misspelled all the important words?

The "what if"s disappear when Dr. Director looks back up with the biggest smile he's ever seen on her face. Her eye is shining like she's about to cry. She's not the crying kind.

"Is it - okay?" he asks stupidly.

Dr. Director nods, closing the card carefully. "It's much better than okay. Do you mind if I keep this on my desk?" She raises one eyebrow. "It's inspiring."

He's an _inspiring _hero! "Yes!" he yelps joyfully. Everything is so wonderful he has to jump up and down and fling his arms around. "Of course you can!"

Someone snickers from the doorway, and he looks up to see Shego walking away. "Wait!" he cries as an idea strikes him. This has been a day of Very Good Ideas, and this might just be the best one yet.

Shego turns around, skin pinched between her eyebrows as he takes the distance between them in three big leaps. He lands right next to her, skidding a little on the slippery linoleum, and holds up his pinky finger. "BFF, Shego?" he asks hopefully.

She just stares at him for a long time without saying anything. But eventually she half-grins. Lifts her pinkie. Curls it around his.

And holds on.


	52. Wonder

WARNING: Much sappy cuteness ahead. Get a tissue if you tend to cry easily.

I own noz-hing! Noz-hing!

**Wonder**

He's not sure why he's crying.

Maybe it's because DNAmy is sitting two seats in front of him, and she's bawling her eyes out - he can't stand to see a woman cry. Or maybe it's because of the organ music, which is so loud and deep he can feel it pounding through the floorboards, but somehow it doesn't make the song sound like rock music. Or maybe the flowers just smell way too strong.

Whatever the reason, the instant the bride appears at the back of the room, one arm wrapped around her father's waist, he loses it completely. He's never been a quiet crier - or a pretty one - so he covers his face with his hands and gulps and whimpers and squeezes himself up into a ball on the pew so that he doesn't draw too much attention to himself.

Shego elbows him in the ribs then and hisses, "Sit up, for crying out loud." He wants to tell her that he can't do the former because he's busy doing the latter, but he doesn't trust his vocal chords to be able to whisper. She's threatened him with bodily harm if he embarrasses her today.

So he sits up, wiping his eyes with his hands so he won't get his sleeves wet. His ruffly, puffy, itchy sleeves that he really, _really _wants to be out of. Why aren't you allowed to wear lab coats to weddings?

All those thoughts skitter out of his mind as he watches the bride walk up the alley - no, no, the _aisle_, he corrects himself. She has one of those veils over her eyes, like she's trying to keep bugs out of her face (which he would understand if this was an _outdoor _wedding, but in here it doesn't make that much sense), but he can still see them shining like someone polished them.

That dress is, without a doubt, _the _whitest thing he's ever seen, and it sparkles when she moves. The shininess fascinates him, and, without thinking twice, he reaches toward it.

In a blink of a moment, Shego's elbow is nearly going through his stomach, and he yelps - as quietly as he can - and draws his hand back. Oh, well, he thinks, rubbing his belly. It's probably just as well. His dirty fingers would ruin that sparkly dress.

The bride's red hair flows over her shoulders like. . . he doesn't know. . . something really pretty. Even in a suit and tie, his hair brushed and trimmed, he feels gawky and out of place, like he's watching something he doesn't deserve to see.

The Stoppable kid stands at the front of the room, eyes round, mouth rounder. He looks like he doesn't trust his vision, either.

When Kim Possible sees the groom, her smile gets even brighter until she looks like she's glowing from inside, like she's florescent. Florescence he understands perfectly, but he can't begin to comprehend this strange, tight feeling in his throat, working its way down to his chest. Maybe he's coming down with pneumonia. . .

James tucks his arm tightly through his daughter's, like he's placing her in front of a firing squad, instead of just giving her away. His jaw is clenched down so that he almost looks vicious, like all the times he looked him square in the eye and smirked and called him "Lipsky" and mocked him. . .

That's all in the past now, gone, but it's hard to completely put it behind him. His neck still prickles a little, and he starts to look the other way, when he catches sight of a single, solitary tear trickling out of James's eye and down his cheek, where it gets lost by the side of his nose.

The lumpiness in his throat doubles. He wonders if that'll ever be Shego, standing there in a wedding dress and beaming over some guy who can't possibly begin to deserve being looked at that way by her.

Ah. Now he knows exactly how James feels. And. . . oh boy. . . here come some more tears.

"Dearly beloved," the minister at the front of the church begins, voice far too calm for the amazing event he's overseeing, "we are gathered here today. . ."

He cranes his neck, wiping his eyes, to see if anyone else is crying. Ann is, which only makes sense - after all, this is her daughter. DNAmy's still going. A couple of people who vaguely resemble Stoppable - his parents? other relatives? - look all teary-eyed.

Come to think of it, everyone looks a little choked up. Young love must just _do _that to you, even if you don't understand it.

Okay. That was interesting. Now where's the cake?

There's a table on one side of the room, but he can't see over some very tall person who has inconsiderately planted himself diagonallyacross from him. For the first time in a long, long time, he wishes he had a Doomsday device with him. Nothing _harmful_, just a Teleportation Ray that would beam all the big people into the back row. . .

Ugghneh. He twists around, gets up on his knees, and curls his fingers around the top of the pew, straining to see over Tall Person's wide head, trying to catch any glimpse of the layered wedding cake in all its sugary goodness -

And Shego's elbow whacks him again. "This qualifies as embarrassing, Drakken," she hisses.

"I'm trying to see the cake," he whispers back, his voice not _quite _as quiet as hers.

"The cake's in a totally different room now SIT!" Shego finishes that run-on sentence by putting both hands on his shoulders, twisting him around, and pushing him back down onto his buns like he's two years old. Which he does not appreciate.

The minister's voice is still droning on and on. James still stands in the corner, alternating between smiling and giving the Stoppable kid warning looks. The bride and groom still look at each other, looking incredibly happy and so - so -

They're not crushed. They're not fluttered. He swallows hard and swipes his fist across his eyes. They're in love.

"Kim Possible, do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband - "

Oh, no. There's mucus dribbling out of his nose, and he definitely can't wipe _that _on his sleeves. But he can't just sit here and let it run down his face, either. That's definitely not good wedding-guest behavior!

"Tissues in your pocket," Shego mouths.

Thank you, thank you, Shego. He digs into his pocket, grabs the whole big wad of them, and blows his nose right as the minister finishes saying, ". . . 'till death do you part?"

It _honks._ The quietest, most beautiful part of the wedding, and his nose makes a sound like a caffeinated goose! He slumps down in his seat and wishes for an invisiblity shield.

The only person he dares to look at is Shego, and her mouth is in almost-laughing position. _Please, God, _he begs,_ don't let everyone be staring at me._

"I do," Kim Possible says softly.

Phew. He didn't make her forget her lines. And now everyone's looking at her again, the way they're supposed to.

Not that he minds being the center of attention. But this isn't _his _wedding, after all.

He's not sure he should even be in this reception line - he barely knows most of the other people in it. Sure, he's seen some of them around - kidnapped a few of them - but overall, they're just a bunch of unfamiliar faces.

Plus, he remembered a very important fact after those crazy kids kissed - and he burst into tears all over again and Shego shook her head and chuckled. A guy with a beard so pointy you could probably cut yourself on it wrapped up a fancy glass in a handkerchief and dropped it on the ground for the Stoppable kid to step on. He was thinking how bizarre it was to be breaking a glass that you could use in your new home or apartment or whatever when he suddenly realized he totally forgot to get them a wedding gift.

So, yeah. He shouldn't be in this line. Nothing to give the happy couple that he used to try and kill. No idea what he's supposed to say to them. Even the clear place in his head is muddy and jumbled.

Kim Possible (Kim Stoppable? Kim Possible-Stoppable? See, he doesn't even know _that_ anymore!) is standing right there, the veil pushed back and her cheeks flushed with excitement. This is supposed to be the happiest day of her life - she wouldn't want to see her ex-arch-enemy today. If _he _were getting married, he probably wouldn't want to see _her_. Too many memories.

But - it's probably the gown that pulls him forward, because he's never seen anything so - so - so - _pure_. Yes, that's a good word.

Standing there in her wedding gown, everything on her shining, she doesn't look like a sassy teenager anymore. She's - he gulps - a grown woman. He can practically feel himself getting ganglier and bluer with every step he takes toward her.

Finally, he's there in front of her, shaking down to his toenails. "Kim Poss - uh - Kim," he coughs, grateful to his voice for staying deep and steady. "I wish you many happy returns - "

No, no, _no_! That's for birthdays. "I mean - I wish you a lifetime supply of happiness - I mean - I mean - I mean -" _Come back, words. _"I wish you - neggh leh rrrihgnh!"

He slaps both hands over his mouth once those fly out. Yep, that was the sound of his dignity slipping away. You don't spout unintelligible noises of frustration at a bride on her wedding day.

So he's utterly embarrassed himself and probably annoyed her. That means it's time to go.

He starts to walk away, when something stops him. "Drakken," Kim says, almost whispering.

She must be talking to him. Probably aren't too many other people here named Drakken. He turns back around to see her smiling. "I'm glad you could make it," she says simply.

And he can tell from her eyes that she means it. He glows from the inside - _florescent _- as gratitude and joy well up in his heart. Before he has any idea what his arms are doing, he flings them around Kim and gives her a big hug.

Everyone seems to suck in their breaths at the same time, so that it almost sounds like the room itself gasps. He doesn't blame them, really - he's as surprised as anyone.

But none of that really sinks in at the moment. The only thing that matters is the fact that Kim blinks. Then smiles a shaky smile that slowly grows into something real. Then pats his shoulder, ever so slightly.

That's when he knows he's been forgiven.


	53. All That I Have

The Disneys belong to Lipsky. . . or something like that. . .

**All That I Have **

_Okay, let's see._ He shoves his glasses up his nose with a sweaty finger - the bus's really hot and stuffy today - and nibbles on his pencil as he thinks. Maybe he should pretend he's in a word problem, like the kind in his math book.

_The Junior Scientist Chemistry Set that Drew's mother says is too expensive costs five measly dollars. He already has a dollar that he found lying on the sidewalk outside the library one day. He is currently _- that means "for right now" - _skipping lunch so that he can save his lunch money, which is $1.50 a day, until he has enough to buy his chemistry set. How long will Drew have to go without lunch? _

His stomach makes a noise like a seasick moose, and he presses on it with one hand to shut it up. He's seen people on the news who went for _weeks _without _any_ food; he can eat only two meals a day for a little while. It's for the sake of science, after all.

Still, he definitely feels funky, and not in a good way. In a shaky, dizzy way. Maybe he's just bus-sick. He sits up straighter and peers out the grimy window. Ouch! The heat burns his fingertips, bad, and he jerks them back to make sure they aren't turning black and shriveling.

Nope. Just a tiny bit pink. How boring.

Anyway. He returns to his student notebook, the one with black-and-white checkered squares on the front like a real scientist logbook. Let's see - a dollar plus a dollar-fifty is two-fifty, plus another dollar-fifty is four dollars, then another dollar-fifty is five dollars and fifty cents! _More _than he needs to buy his chemistry set.

Hmm. That's three days, and today was one of them, so -

_You hear that, stomach? _he tries to tell it, to see if that'll make it stop grumbling. _Only two more days._

_Rawooolf, _it answers.

_And Mom will have a snack waiting for us at home._ He shifts around, because his shorts are starting to stick to the hot vinyl of the bus seat, and that's very uncomfortable. When are they going to get air conditioning in here, anyway?

He was kind of worried when Mom told him they couldn't afford the chemistry set, even though it was on sale. He's heard her murmuring a lot about bills - heat bills (who uses heat in May?), electricity bills, water bills (isn't water supposed to be _free_?) and something called a "mortgage," with has to do with the house.

What if she can't pay all those bills, even though she has a job now? Are they going to get kicked out of their house and have to live on the streets? That happened a lot during the Great Depression - he remembers reading about that in school - and he doesn't want to lose his house, even if the stairs squeak and the kitchen window is always stuck half-open.

Or maybe they'll just get their electricity turned off - or their heat - or their water - you can't live without water, even if you're a koala - they'd have to eat a lot of

eucalyptus leaves. He stops for a moment and wonders who does those kinds of things to people who can't pay their bills. He imagines Darth Vader, breathing hard behind his black mask, flipping a gigantic switch marked "Lipsky House" and plunging them into darkness and waterlessness.

Oooh. He shudders, even through the sweat trickling down into the back of his T-shirt.

But he really does like hanging out in the library all by himself during lunch period, reading books about the human body and microscopic organisms and how the food chain works. Nobody rushes him, and he doesn't have to worry about saying the words right. Even the librarians didn't seem to notice him crouched in the corner, which is one of the few good things about being the smallest boy in fifth grade.

Satisfied with the answer to his math problem, he bends down to put his notebook back in his backpack. The bus gives a particularly rough bounce, and he jolts forward, his head knocking into the seat in front of him. Good things these seats are soft, or he might have gotten a concussion, he thinks as he pulls back and rubs his head.

Hmm. He wonders who he bumped. He can't see over the top of the seat, which is one of the many _bad _things about being the smallest boy in fifth grade.

So he gets up on his knees, cranes his neck until he hears a pop, and finally sees someone sitting up straight, someone with red braids hanging down her back. Julie. Tattletale, good-reader Julie, who always checks out _The Young Astronomer's Guide to the Solar System_ from the school library if he doesn't have it.

He wonders if she's still mad at him for what happened in science class today. They were learning about how some type of pigeon went extinct and Julie started crying. He hates to see her cry, and Carl and those guys were starting to laugh at her, so he stuck out his tongue and waggled his ears at her to make her stop. But she must have thought he was making fun of her, because she bopped him over the head with her notebook and hasn't looked at him for the whole rest of the day.

Julie must feel him looking at her, because she turns around and raises her eyebrows. "What is it, Drew?" Her lips are tight, so he knows she must still be angry.

"Where were you at lunch, anyway?" she asks, dangling her own tie-dye lunchbox by the shoulder strap. Ohhh - there were cookies in there; he can smell them.

He presses both hands against his stomach so she can't hear it growling. "Around." That's not a lie. "Do you - want me to do your science homework for you?" He smiles really big at her, so she can see he wasn't trying to make her angry today.

Julie sniffs and twists up her mouth at him. "That's cheating."

"Oh." Right. He kind of forgot. He slides down in his seat and tucks his feet up under him so she can't see the holes in his sneakers.

Julie starts to turn back around then, and he doesn't want her to. He wants to keep talking to her, so before he knows what he's doing, he grabs one of her braids and yanks it hard.

She screams and whips around and glares at him. "Why did you do that, Drew?" she yells.

He shrugs.

"Leave me alone!" Julie flips back around in her seat and he hears her sniffle, like she's sad again. "You're so annoying!"

He sags inside.

He was right. Mom did have a snack waiting for him when he got home. A box of graham crackers - he guesses he was only supposed to take a few, but he was so hungry he ate a whole sack of them. He wipes the crumbs off his upper lip and slides down in the chair, rubbing his tummy. _Ahhh. . . that's better._

Mom stops wiping at the counter and smiles at him. "You have quite the appetite today, Drewbie. Did they not feed you at school?"

His heart jumps straight out of his chest.

Well, that's what it feels like, anyway. He grabs the table with both hands and stares straight down at it, because it suddenly seems like he has "I SKIPPED LUNCH AND HUNG OUT IN THE LIBRARY" written across his forehead in big letters.

Mom chuckles and pats his back. "It's all right, sugar, no harm done. I know you're just a growing boy."

_Growing boy? _Great. Maybe he won't be this tiny forever.

His mom's eyes aren't suspicious, but he doesn't really want to look at her in case she _can _somehow see that he's lying. So he jumps up from the table, takes his plate to the sink, grabs his backpack, and tromps down the stairs to his room. "I'm gonna go do my homework!" he yells back over his shoulder.

The last thing he hears before he slams his door shut behind him is Mom saying proudly, "My Drewbie, such a responsible student. . . "

Let's see. He grunts as he lifts his backpack, turns it upside-down, and dumps everything out on his bed. His Social Studies book lands on top, so he guesses that's what he'll do first.

He looks at his assignment notebook. "Write a letter to the President," it says. Ohhh, right. They've been studying letter-writing in Language, so this is homework for _both _classes at once. Groovy.

_Dear Mr. Presadent,_

_Hi. I am almost ten-and-a-half years old and I am in the fith grade. My dad left two years ago and I haven't seen him cents. Isn't this illegeal? If you bring him back, I will give you five dollars._

_You're Freind,_

_Drew Lipsky_

He sighs and lets the paper fall to the desk. The president can't read every let he gets - because he probably gets, like, five bazillion every day - but maybe he'll read this one and he'll send the Secret Service and the National Guard out after his dad and they'll drag him home and make him promise never to leave, ever again. Under penalty of _law_!

Maybe. Maybe.

If he's ever president, he'll make it illegal for dads to leave their families. Or for moms not to make enough money to buy their kids chemistry sets so they can grow up and become famous scientists and make the world a better place.

He puts his hand in his pocket. The quarters are firm and cold against his sweaty hands. He better put the money in a safe place so he doesn't lose it. He loses things a lot. Still not sure where his other slipper is.

Hopping down from his desk chair, he drags it over to the door and props it up under the doorknob so nobody can come in. Then he drops down to his hands and knees and pulls his treasure box out from under his bed.

This is where he keeps his secretest, most important stuff. A mood ring he got in a cereal box. A hundred-dollar bill from the Monopoly game, because it's cool to pretend he has a hundred dollars. An eraser in the shape of a pig that was too cool to use.

The clipping from the school paper that announces he finally won second prize in the science fair this year for the high-tech watch he made. But it's not the best picture of him - he thinks he might be picking his nose - and whoever wrote the article heard his name wrong and called him "Drew Lipsync."

It's still there, though, with his red ribbon. Someday, he'll have a blue ribbon in here, too, hopefully more than one. Then Carl and those guys won't ever dare to pick on him again.

An ad that he ripped out of a waiting room magazine - contact lenses on super-sale, only he's not sure how much they cost because he accidentally tore off the corner with the price. Maybe, though, if his mom sees he's manly enough to go three whole days without lunch, she'll realize he's grown-up enough to get contacts.

There's a family picture - him and Mom and his dad's left ear. He ripped the rest of Dad out a few weeks after he left because he was really mad. Now he kinda wishes he hadn't, because he's sort of starting to forget what he looks like.

Not that he cares or anything. Because he hates his father.

And waaaaaaaaaay in the back is his dollar. He smooths his other dollar out carefully and lays it right on top, plopping the two quarters down next to them. There. Two dollars and fifty cents.

He starts to slide the box back under his bed when two beady black eyes stare back at him. Rat?

No. It's just Mr. Cuddlelumps, his old stuffed monkey that he shoved under the bed at the start of fifth grade because stuffed animals are so _babyish_.

The monkey's eyes look sad. He knows that's just because the fur around them is starting to fray - that's a cool word, _fray_ - but it sure looks like he's lonely.

He pulls him out and blows the dust bunnies off him. Babyish or not, no one gets Mr. Cuddlelumps dusty. "I'm sorry," he whispers. "But you gotta stay under my bed, okay? Fifth-graders don't sleep with stuffed monkeys."

_What about the blankie? _Mr. Cuddlelumps' button eyes seem to say.

"He's easier to hide," he explains. "Tuck him under my sheets and nobody notices - in case I ever have kids over for the night."

Which he won't. He doesn't wet the bed that much anymore, but it still happens sometimes. And that _sometimes _is enough to keep him from asking other kids to sleep over.

_This is ridiculous, Drew, _he tells himself sternly. _You're talking to a stuffed animal. It's not alive. It can't talk back. It's not scientific._

_Quit being such a baby, _his dad's voice chimes in. He might not be able to see him in his head as well, but he can still hear him loud and clear.

He sighs and starts to shove Mr. Cuddlelumps back under the bed, but he stops. Pulls him back out. Wraps his arms around him and gives him one big squeeze just in case he feels unloved.

Then he puts everything back in its place. And goes back to his homework.

NOTE: I'm not entirely sure who Darth Vadar belongs to (George Lucas, maybe?), but he's not mine either. Julie, however, is. *hugs Julie*


	54. Give Up

Kim Possible and all related characters belong to Disney (except for when they have slumber parties at my house).

**Give Up**

He bounces from foot to foot, the excitement in him building with every minute that goes by - no, every _second_. Why does Shego have to be late today, of all days, when he has the most amazing plan ever to show her?

9:09. Almost ten minutes past her official clock-in time. Bounce, bounce. When is she going to get here?

He takes another swig of coffee from his growly-faced mug and licks the cream off his upper lip - to be honest, there's probably more cream and sugar in his cup than coffee. But that's okay, because he likes their taste a lot better. Coffee's a little too bitter for him, except for that stuff at some fast-food place they went to once - warm and bubbly with whipped cream on top and hot fudgy stuff drizzled on top of _that_. Absolutely heavenly. He had three or four of those.

Yeah, he'd like to be able to drink that stuff every day, but Shego says their insurance won't cover that kind of disaster. He's not sure what she means - all he did was drop the hovercraft keys in the shark tank. And laser a hole in the bathroom ceiling. And catch his lab coat on fire. . .

He's in the middle of checking over his evil posterboard presentation when he hears a knock on the door. "Who's there?" he shouts around a mouthful of sugary cream - most of which winds up on his lab coat.

"Your marbles," a sarcastic voice calls back.

Shego! About time she got here! He yanks open the door and scowls down at her. "You're late."

"Yeah, by ten whole minutes." Shego saunters in, rolling her eyes. "Alert the press."

"That's not _funny_, Shego." His neck prickles, the way it always does when she mocks the important things in life. "Punctualness is very important in an employee!"

Shego mutters something about his grammar and then smirks at him. "I was gonna ask if you were up to a field trip to Smarty Mart. If not - " she twists her mouth up at his mug - "I'll go by myself."

Smarty Mart! He feels himself light up. That's so incredibly perfect! "Oh, while you're there," he asks - sips his coffee - he had a long night last night - did he sleep at all? "I need four billion boxes of baking soda and twelve thousand pounds of vinegar."

Shego looks at him, and he peers back to see if there's any sign of the respect and the _wow-you're-smart_ he longs for. Nope. The look in her green eyes is pure Shego - hard amusement mixed with annoyance.

"Suuuuuuuuuure," she finally mumbles. "And while I'm there, why I don't pick up three million metric tons of candy corn?"

Hmmm. He ponders that. "Well, I don't believe I'll need that for my scheme," he finally decides. But - _oohh_, his mouth waters at the thought. He loves candy corn. "But go ahead and get some if you can find it." He nods firmly. "It's been entirely too long since Halloween."

Shego's eyes droop to half-mast. "Right. Remind me again - was it _this _Halloween or _last _one when you stayed up till 3:00 AM working on plans to pass out nano-explosives to trick-or-treaters and then barfed all over your blueprints?"

He bristles at the memory. "Those peanut butter cups were obviously contaminated by a rogue factory worker!"

"Right," Shego repeats. "And the fact that you ate six dozen of them couldn't possibly have had anything to do with it."

Hoo-boy. She's got a point. That means it's time to change the subject. "Shego - are you not the slightest bit curious about why I need so much baking soda and vinegar?"

His sidekick shrugs. "Because you're nutsoid. But I already knew that."

Nugh. His prickles grow prickles. "It's for my latest plot - The Volcano-inator!" He grins at her - sure _that_'ll impress her.

Instead, her eyebrows go up and pinch in the middle. Shego sure can do some cool things with her brows. Almost enough to make him wish for the conformity of two of the things. "Volcano-inator?" She snorts out her laugh. "Come on, Dr. D, even _you _can think of something better than that!"

Oh _huh_. Little does she know he's got an even better name up his sleeve. "How about -" he lets an evil chuckle slip out of his mouth - "The Tremendous Volcano Machine of Evil Destruction?"

"O-kay." Shego's eyebrows come down. "Points for long-windedness."

"Thanks!" The grin goes even bigger, until he can see his own teeth. (They're sparkly.) "Now, behold my master plan!" He throws both arms out grandly, gesturing to the posterboard presentation.

"Whoop-dee-do. Cheers and applause." Shego plops herself down backward in a chair and rests her sharp chin on the headrest, thereby making it a chinrest. "Let's get this over with."

He droops his eyes at her, the way she always does to him. "Your enthusiasm is overwhelming," he mutters. His voice creeps up a little - he waited almost ten whole minutes longer than normal to show her a plan even more amazing than usual - the least she can do is get excited with him!

He taps the first piece of posterboard, which tumbles to the ground and takes four other pieces with it. "Oh, come on!" he bursts out. This kind of thing never happens to the villains on TV. Why is he the only one who suffers such indignanties? (Oooh, that sounds neat.)

Grunting and hissing and moaning - bending down to get them hurts his back - he shoves the posterboards back on top of each other in what he hopes are the correct order and then yanks the first one off. "Step One," he recites, voice calm and booming once again. "We construct gigantic paper-mache volcanoes which we will then place in strategic locations around the globe."

Shego rolls her eyes. "Oooh. Sounds like fun."

Actually, it kind of does. He flicks that piece of posterboard away and gestures grandly to the next one. "Step Two. Call the world's leaders and inform them that gigantic paper-mache volcanoes of evil and destruction have been placed in strategic locations around the globe. Unless they give me complete control of the world, we will pour baking soda and vinegar into the volcanoes and cause massive eruptions." The sheer joy of wickedness bubbles in his chest until he has throw back his head and. . . "MUA-HA-HA-HA! MUA-HA-HA!"

Man, does that feel good. Well, in an evil way.

He yanks away _that _posterboard. "While the general populace is fleeing for their lives - "

Shego's lips suddenly start twitching. "Wow. Uh - wanna check your slides there, Genius Boy?"

What is she talking about? He whips around and stares a photograph of a molting cicada that is very much not fleeing for its life. Hmm. . .

"Ohh, right!" he yells, tossing that picture back over his shoulder. "That was from another plan that - errr - didn't work out."

Shego shakes her head. "I don't even wanna know."

She doesn't? That puts a droop in his bounce.

"Anyway - " he clears his throat and tries to remember what he was talking about before that stupid cicada distracted him with its stupid cicada. . . ness - "while the general populace flees for their lives, I will either seize the world by force, or the world's leaders will hand it over to me in desperation!"

"Okay. Question." Shego sticks her hand up in the air like a first-grader.

He points at her. "Yes. Shego?"

"Exactly how much damage is a baking-soda volcano gonna do?" Shego holds out her hands, palms up, like he's going to stick the answer in them. "I mean, the vinegar would stink, but it doesn't exactly sound too. . . dangerous."

How does she always find the one thing wrong with his schemes? And _why_? "Well," he coughs a little, "that's probably a good thing. I don't want to destroy too much of the world - I want as much of it to be around as possible for me to rule!" Heh-heh. Very villainous.

And maybe - just maybe - that means no little girl will almost get hurt this time and mess everything all up for him. Maybe this one will actually work and the world will be his and he'll be all-powerful and everyone will look at him with respect and _wow-you're-smart_ in their eyes and everything will be okay. Finally.

"I gotta hand it to you, Doc." Shego turns around in her chair and half-smiles at him. "Anyone else probably woulda given up by now."

Was that an actual compliment? His chest puffs out. "I _am _extremely tenacious, after all." That's "stubborn," but in a nice way.

"That, or crazy." Shego snorts. How can she do that so often and not sound like a pig? It's a mystery.

Right up there with how someone can work at taking over the world for over twenty years and _still _not succeed. Scientifically speaking, the odds are in his favor - one of these days, _something _has to work!

_Anyone else probably woulda given up by now. _He considers those words. Sure, there have been times when he's been so frustrated and upset that he wanted to quit, but, really, what else would he do? This is all he knows.

Besides, if he gives up, he'll never have the world and all the amazing stuff that comes with it. A weird, heartburny feeling starts in his chest he looks back at his final piece of posterboard, the design for his palace. Made of the finest, strongest, most beautiful metal in the world, decorated with gold and jewels. If that doesn't work out, he plans to live in the Taj Mahal.

After all, he's not an evil megalomaniac for nothing.

NOTE: "Volcano-inator" is a reference to _Phineas and Ferb's_ villain, Dr. Doofenshmirtz, just because he's so amazingly Drakken-like.


	55. Last Hope

In case you've been living under a rock or something, Drakken belongs to Disney.

**Last Hope**

He presses his pencil down on the blank sheet of paper with all the frustration built up inside him, so hard he's sure the lead's going to pop off and snap and roll away. But it doesn't. It leaves a black mark on the paper, one so deep it goes straight through to the other side and then onto the next sheet.

A dot. An impressive, deep dot, but still a dot. No ideas for world domination. No genius. Just an angry little dot.

He slams his entire _face _down onto the paper and grits his teeth until they hurt. _Think, Drakken_, he orders himself. _Just think!_

Still nothing. Every minute that goes by with more nothingness in his brain feels like another minute on a time bomb. Another half-hour like this, and he'll blow up, he knows, just explode all over his secret Alpine lair.

He grunts and gets up from the table, wanders around the lair for a few more minutes, checks on the progress of the snow outside. It seems colder when no one's there to watch it fall with him.

Because Shego went home for the night and the henchmen took the week off to go to some stupid water park - _how villainous of them_, he thinks sarcastically - and he's left alone after-hours without an evil scheme to work on. At least this lair isn't as big as his usual haunted island one, but it's even colder and darker.

Not that it scares him, of course. Secret lairs aren't supposed to be warm and cozy. That wouldn't intimidate the do-gooders, and what else is a secret lair good for? Besides, the brighter it is in here, the darker it looks outside. He knows that for a fact.

If he calls Shego, he knows she'll yell at him. But a text-message shouldn't bother her. . . much.

He punches out his message, slowly and carefully. At least with texting you can backspace if you say something the wrong way.

****

Wut r u doing rite now?

A minute later, it blips. He smiles - Shego wrote him back! - and looks down at the screen. **Enjoying the peace and quiet**_,_ it reads. **You know, without you here.**

Oh. Now he feels embarrassed for bugging her. But he should at least try to explain why, so she'll know he wasn't just being annoying.

****

I miss u.

_Send._

Silence. Lonely silence.

He flops himself down on the couch and moans, holding his achy forehead. If only the henchmen were here, he'd wake them up and they'd run outside and make snow angels and snowmen and he could build a fort and pretend it was the ice palace he was living in because he conquered the world. Even Shego could probably be talked into having a snowball fight.

But, no. He's alone with his mad-scientist-ness, which seems to be fading away by the day. _Is there some kind of chemical I can whip up that'll get me back to normal?_

_Think, Drakken! _He buries his face in the couch cushions and hisses through his teeth against the tightness in his chest. _THINK!_

Outside, the wind gets even louder, and that makes him even lonelier. If anyone could see him now, they probably wouldn't know he was a dangerous supervillain - they'd probably think he was some scared little kid, all curled up on the couch alone during a snowstorm. He begins to feel very, very sorry for himself.

_Snowstorm! I could take over the world with a gigantic snowstorm!_

_No. I tried that already, remember? The cupcake thingy? _That thought deflates - just goes "pssssssshhhhhhhhh" and flops flat.

_Rainstorm? _

_Weather machine. Tried it. Didn't work._

_Mind-control?_

_Tried it. Several times. Didn't work._

_Hypnotic brainwashing giant robot dinosaur chicken legs - _

Ugh! He plants a couch pillow over his mouth and wishes he could stick his hands right in his ears, grab his brain and make it just stay still for _half a second_.

But the whirling in his head doesn't stop. His brain spins over to a different subject - what about Monkey Fist?

His back prickles, and he sits up straighter, wishing he hadn't thought of that. What _about _Monkey Fist? He's dead - turned to stone - whatever - he's gone and he's not coming back. It might be kind of sad (at least if you're DNAmy, which he's not), but there's nothing anyone can do about it.

Of course, he overheard the buffoon telling Duff Killigan, who didn't really seem to be listening, that Monkey Fist tried to kill his baby sister - that sweet little girl with the hypnotic eyes and the soft coos! Even _he _would never do something like that.

Not on purpose, anyway.

The remote catches his eye, and he snatches it up and turns on the TV, grateful for the distraction. Some sickly cute kiddy show appears, with singing multicolored floofy things that look like DNAmy created them. Yick.

He glances down at his phone to see if Shego texted him back. Nothing. Not even a _You'll see me tomorrow, goofball_.

Flip.

A bloodcurdling scream nearly makes him jump out of his lab coat. Some lady in a nightgown hides in the night's shadows, while a guy points a knife at her. And he doesn't look like he's trying to teach her how to slice garlic.

He looks away and presses the Channel Up button with the tip of his pinkie finger. He's tried to watch some of those movies to see what all the fuss was about - maybe get some wicked ideas for schemes - but all they do is give him nightmares, worse than pineapple on his pizza.

Dramatic music blares out of the TV's speakers, and he grins and leans back in the chair as a lion circles another lion like he's mistaken him for a zebra. "Tell them who is responsible for Mufasa's death," the first lion snarls.

Ooh, goody! He smiles for the first time in hours, feeling his ponytail go up. He likes this movie! He settles back into the sofa cushions and wishes he had some popcorn - maybe he can go make some next commercial break -

The second lion swallows hard. "I am," he whispers.

The first lion grins evilly, and his own lips stretch into a carbon copy of it. Matter of fact, if he turned himself into a lion, that's probably what he'd looked like - scrawny, wild dark mane, scar over his left eye. . .

Huh. He's thought that a few times before, but this time it doesn't make him nearly as happy.

"You see!" the scarred lion bellows. "He admits it! Murderer!" Lightning crashes - onscreen - at that exact moment. It always does at the important points in movies. . . too bad it doesn't in real life. He could sure use it for an early-warning system.

"No!" the second lion cries as the camera begins to spin wildly. He clutches his head with one hand, because he's dizzy enough already. "It's not true! It was an accident! I'm _not _a murderer!"

Whoa. He's never really heard those words before - well, okay, he has, but never in a way that makes him stop and choke on his own breath.

He pulls away from the movie, jumps back on the couch and hugs his knees to his chest. Back and forth he rocks, back and forth, with his lips all tucked in as his mind races even faster than before.

_So. . . if it's an accident, you're _not _a murderer. Simba's not. I'm not. Sure, I might have killed a few people, but accidentally; I mean, who hasn't, right? It's okay -_

_No. _He stops himself halfway through that thought and looks out at the dark, snowy night. _No, Drakken, it's not okay._

_It'll _never _be okay._

He sucks in a shaky breath between his teeth. What if, deep down, he's a horrible person, just like Monkey Fist? What if he tries another scheme and it gets out of his hands and he winds up turning to stone and goes to where Monkey Fist is now, wherever that is?

Well, he won't let it. He'll stay perfectly in control -

Like he can even do that. He can't, he knows. In jail, he met his own bloodshot eyes in the mirror and swore up and down he would never let things get that out of control again. And then the next thing he knew, Shego was in chains and he was pacing around trying to lure Kim Possible into yet another death trap and drain the oxygen from the earth's atmosphere.

Maybe - maybe the closer you get to whatever it is you want, the harder it is to control yourself. Maybe, if he saw little Hana What's-Her-Face that horrible Diablo night, he would have tried to kill her, too_._

_Ooooh. _He claps a hand over his mouth and tries to force his thoughts in a different direction before he loses his bedtime snack. This is bad talk, bad-bad-bad. _A true villain knows no fear, _is what Jack Hench always says in _Villains _magazine.

But he can't _help _it. When his body thinks he's in danger, it starts the fear process, the nasty sweaty hands and dry mouth and urpy stomach. It's _supposed _to do that to help him _survive_ because he's only _human_. An intellectually superior human, but still a human, and a scared one at that.

And the worst fear yet is creeping up inside him, where he can't shoo it away. _You've been at it for over twenty years and never succeeded, Drakken. How long can you go on?_

"One last plan!" he yells to the emptiness of the lair. "I just need one last plan!"

_The Lion King _fades to commercial then, advertising one of those horror movies with the pretty ladies in nightgowns and bathing suits getting chopped up into pieces. Urrk. Who makes these, anyway? One of the girls kind of looks like Shego, and that gets him all furious.

"For thousands of years, the killer plants laid in wait in the Amazon jungle," the announcer's voice booms in that way only a movie promoter's can do. "But now. . . they have been unleashed and doom descends upon the world."

_Doom descends upon the world. . . _

_Plants? _

_Plants!_

_Eureka! _(That's Latin for "A-HA!")

Inspiration - his brain whirls - plants, plants, plants - killer plants - needs fertilizer - he'll have to look in his science manuals - plants - killer plants -

Killer plants! Why didn't he think of it before?

"That's it!" he cries as his light, joyful feet carry him into the kitchen and jump right on top of a chair. "My greatest scheme yet has come to me! The hour of Dr. Drakken's triumph is at hand!"

That sounds amazingly villainous, and he throws back his head and lets out his deepest, darkest, most sinister laugh. "MUA-HA-HA! A-HA-HA-HA!"

The chair wobbles out from under him and he crashes straight to the ground.

Shakily, he gets up, making sure all his limbs are in one piece and not twisted at weird angles. They're fine. Good. The only damage is to his ego. Not so good.

Still, as he dusts himself off and heads to the lab for his science manuals, he knows this is it. This is the plan that will finally work and bring him everything he longs for. He knows it. He can _feel _it.

Besides, he has a feeling it's his last chance.

NOTE: The Lion King and all its characters belong to Disney, too. (Good grief, they own all the cool stuff. . .)


	56. Precious Treasure

Me no own Kim Possible or any related characters. Disney own Kim Possible and all related characters. Disney huge corporation with lots of money. Me no get money for this. Me just simple fanfic writer.

**Precious Treasure**

__

The huge black robot stomps across the linoleum floor, massive feet quaking the ground. "Yes," he hisses in a deep voice. "The Magno-Scope-Ray 5000 is MINE! Soon nothing will stop me from completing my goal of utter world domin - "

The words get stuck in his esophagus.

_"Well, you know what I mean." The robot clears his throat. "And all will fear Mr. Destructicon!"_

_"Not if I have anything to do with it!" Another - blue - robot swoops in, his rocket-boosters making an awesome WHOOSH! noise as he lands. "I will stop you, or my name isn't Captain Superbot!"_

_The black robot's mouth curls into a smirk_, if it's possible for robots to smirk. He isn't sure. _"So, we meet again, Superbot! For the last time!"_

__

The blue robot sticks his finger heroically into the air. "Not today, Destructicon!"

__

The robots lunge at each other, their laser-powered eyes firing, Destructicon stupidly turning on his aquatic capabilities, even though there's no water around for a gazillion miles, Superbot reaching for his secret weapon - his anti-gravitational power button. If he pushes it -

"Um, excuse me, sir?"

He looks up at a shopping cart five inches from his face. Interesting. He doesn't think he's ever been in this position before.

His body tenses up. _Don't run me over!_ his brain spits out in panic.

Once it becomes clear that the woman manning (womaning?) the shopping cart isn't going to mow him down, he manages to glare at her. Doesn't she see that the fate of the universe is at stake? That there's a battle to the death going on right here, right now?

The woman's eyebrows raise. "You're blocking the aisle."

That statement doesn't fit with death-battles for the universe, and he glances around in confusion, searching for something that will help this make sense. His eyes land on the sign above his head. "AISLE 25," it reads. "TOYS."

Ohhhhhhh. Right. He's not on Planet Gyrzzzoantoon, watching two robots duke it out over the fate of Earth. He's sitting down in the middle of the toy aisle in Smarty Mart, mashing two action figures together.

He can tell by the way his neck burns that he's blushing, so he gets up. "Just. . . just testing these toys' durability," he fibs. That twinges - he doesn't really like to lie anymore, but sometimes he still does. That makes him sigh as he puts the action figures back on the shelves - that and the fact that he really wanted to see how it turned out.

But that's not what he's here for, he remembers now. He came for - for - for - for - _oh, come on! _He squeezes his eyes shut, and little dots dance in front of his eyes, the little bits of light still getting in through his eyelids. Even _those _can distract him.

__

Think, Drakken. Think.

Teddy bears! Right. Last time he was here, he spotted something wonderful, and felt a different kind of twinge, the kind that feels like someone's pulling on his elbow and whispering, "Come on, Drakken. You should do this. It's the right thing to do." _That _kind of twinge he likes.

"Wow." As the woman steers her cart around him, her son - he only looks about four - walks up and gapes at him in astonishment. "Cool."

"Wow." As the woman steers her cart around him, her son - he only looks about four - walks up and gapes at him in astonishment. "Cool."

He looks around, expecting to see Spider-Man behind him. Nope. The only thing behind him is a display of Barbie houses, which he's pretty sure most toddler boys don't consider "cool." Is the kid looking at _him_? Him, "hopelessly unhip" Drakken? (Shego told him that once, back before they were honest-to-goodness friends.)

"Hey, Mister." The little boy tugs at his jeans leg - his lab coat's in the wash. He has to keep it clean to work in the labs at Global Justice, after all. "Can I be blue someday, too?"

Little kids. Where would the world be without them?

He chuckles a little. "Maybe someday," he answers. "If you're lucky."

The woman drags her still-gaping son away then. The kid waves, and he waves back. Yep. Little kids are definitely cool.

Which is why he's here in the first place! Yes! He remembered!

His chest fills up with the air of pride, which sounds cool, now that he thinks about it. He remembered. That's huge for him.

He scans the row of teddy bears - they're all pretty cute - but he only has eyes for one. _Please, let it still be here._

It is. Way down at the end of the aisle, the perfect teddy bear. Not too big, not too small. Its fur doesn't cover its eyes and make it look mean, which is an incredibly important criteria. He likes that word, _criteria _. . .

It has a big, happy smile, but not so happy it makes you want to gag. It's wearing a pink - but not too pink - sweater that says "Princess" on the front. How sweet. Perfect for a little girl.

But does it stand up _scientifically_? He picks it up in his hands, feels its weight, its importance. Then he takes a deep breath, gathers his strength, and tosses it up in the air as high as he can.

It soars up toward the ceiling and lands perfectly back in his arms. Well, not quite perfectly, but that's his own fault. He trips over his left foot as he scrambles to catch it. Yep - it has the perfect wind dynamics.

He gives the bear's arm a gentle tug. No ripping. It's pretty durable.

He breathes hard through his nose. Now it's time for the most important test of all. The one that can make or break the whole thing.

The huggability factor.

He closes his eyes and clutches the bear tightly to his chest. Ohh, it feels wonderful. Nice and soft and not too squishy. He nuzzles his cheek to its, and that feels even better. It gives him a warm, safe feeling in his chest, and that's the most important thing for any teddy bear.

Yep, this thing's perfect.

The cashier looked at him a little funnily when he went to buy the bear, especially when he counted out the fifteen dollars for it in quarters. It could have been worse - last time he wanted to buy something, he made a _huge _mistake and brought all pennies.

He's still not used to buying things with money, instead of sending Shego in steal them for him. But if he stole this, it would just defeat the entire purpose!

He tucks the flower behind the bear's ear now. "Be good to her," he whispers to it - the flower, not the bear. The bear can't hear him, of course. "Entertain her; do some tricks for her."

__

You got it, sir.

He sighs with contentment as he places the teddy bear into a box - with air holes for the flower - and puts the lid on top, tongue creeping out of his mouth. He has to do this just right.

Because he knows who it's going to. He doesn't know her name or anything, but Kim Possible's friend, the computer kid, he can track her down for him. He knows the basics, after all.

She lives in Japan. Can't be older than seven by now. And she has pigtails and wide eyes and a face he'll never forget.

It's the least he can do.

**Author's Notes:**

***Some of the banter at the beginning of the robot battle was taken from Buzz Lightyear and Zurg's dialogue in _Toy Story 2_**. **And the name "Destructicon" comes from a briefly-mentioned mad scientist on an episode of _Phineas and Ferb_.**

***The "can I be blue?" scene is inspired by a similar exchange in the book _There's a Girl in my Hammerlock._**


	57. Advertisement

WARNING: T for general awkwardness.

If you recognize someone's name from the show, I don't own them.

**Advertisement**

Okay - one more time.

He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and slowly turns his head from side to side, tilts his neck back, lets his hair splash smooth and slick across his cheeks, the ends tickling his nose. Yes! If this looks anything at all like how it feels, all the other shampoos in the world had better watch out, because he's got the modeling-for-commercial business mastered already.

Opening his eyes, he grins at himself in the mirror. His hair is out of its rubber band, hanging just past his shoulders, silky because he actually combed it - with a comb, not his fingers - after washing it - with shampoo, not hand soap - not his shampoo, of course, because then he would be brainwashed and Shego would probably make him scrub the toilets or something nasty like that. . .

Whoa. He grabs the mirror to steady himself. The excitement of being on the brink of world domination is making his thoughts even faster and dizzier than usual.

"Hey, boss!" his henchman Bill's voice hollers from right outside his door. "That filmer guy's here!"

Yes! The ad's director! "Coming!" he yells back, grabbing the towel from his bed and flinging it over his shoulders.

Runs to the door. Opens the door. Hits himself in the face with the door. Staggers down the hall holding his nose against the pain and hoping he won't have to appear on television with a bruised-up face.

The instant he's in the lair's storage-room-turned-studio, he forgets his nose as the director runs up to him and shakes his hand until he's sure his arm is going to come right off. "Drakken," he blathers like someone is fast-forwarding his words. "You remember to wash your hair?"

He barely has a chance to nod before the guy keeps going. "Great, great, great, and comb it, too? Wonderful. I'm tellin' you, babe, you got _gorgeous _hair, you gotta take care of it. Johnson Johnson, president of Johnson Advertising Station." Johnson finally lets go of his hand, and he pulls back and cradles it to his chest. He doesn't like people's hands all over his, especially people he barely knows.

Still, when he sees a guy wearing a headset walk up carrying the camera, his chest goes all tingly again. It's finally happening! His plan is unfolding right before his eyes, and he can't stay still.

"So - when do we start?" he asks gleefully, hopping from one foot to another.

"Look, boss!" Bill cries from behind him. "They got a big old shower right here in the storage room."

Ugh. He groans; his henchmen know nothing about art. "This isn't a storage room anymore, you uncultured dunce," he corrects him. "This is now a studio. And I, Dr. Drakken -" he flips his hair around and lets it waterfall down the back of his neck - "am about to make my acting debut!"

Bill's mouth scrunches. "In the shower?"

Double ugh. He whacks himself in the forehead. "Duh. It's a shampoo commercial." He's actually kind of looking forward to the skipping-through-the-flowers part, even if it doesn't have much to do with hair care products. He's been practicing his happy dance.

"So, Drakken, sweetheart." Johnson puts an arm around his shoulder, and he pulls away and glowers at him. What part of "personal space" does this guy not understand? "You get in the shower, and we'll film that first."

His heartbeat accelerates, and so does his breathing and his hopping from foot to foot. This is actually going according to plan! "We're ready?" he asks hopefully.

Johnson scurries across the room toward the cameraman. "Almost," he calls back over his shoulder. "I just need to get the rest of my equipment out from my van. Go ahead and get undressed while I set up, okay?"

Blink. Something must be wrong with his auditory system, because he's pretty sure he just heard something really weird. "Get. . . undressed?" he repeats in confusion.

Johnson turns around and raises an eyebrow at him. "You do realize you agreed to do this scene unclothed, right?"

Unclothed. . . undressed. . . so many different words for one thing. "You mean - naked?" he asks, just to make sure they're riding the same wave or whatever the term is.

"Yeah." Johnson nods twelve times and shoves a clipboard toward him. On it is a piece of paper covered with long words typed in tiny letters and a scribbly signature at the bottom that he's pretty sure says, "Dr. Drakken." "Did you read the contract?"

Not past the point where it said he didn't have to cut his hair, because he didn't think anything else mattered. He shrugs and snaps at his lab coat's belt and smooths out his eyebrow to make sure he looks presentable.

"Tell you what, babe." Johnson rubs his temples and sighs. "You can wear swim trunks if you want."

"No." He shakes his head. "It's fine."

Because it _is _fine. The contract right here in front of him says the camera will only film from the waist up - and it's not like the people watching won't know what's below his waist, anyway. It's only the natural design of the human body.

He takes a short, excited breath - _I'm gonna conquer the world soon! _- and unbuttons his collar. Tugs his belt off. One boot, then the other. Same with the gloves. Shaky fingers reach up to his lab coat and -

"Check this out!" Bill's voice again, this time coming from near the cameraman. "They've got this picture-helping stuff - "

"Image-enhancing," the cameraman says in a bored voice, like he watches people get undressed every day. What a weird hobby.

"Yeh." Bill bobs his head and grins across the room at him. "They can, like, give you bigger muscles and stuff once they're done shootin', boss!"

"That won't need to with _this _body," he retorts. He flexes his biceps, which don't look nearly as big as they did _before _he was surrounded by his henchmen.

"You can't be serious," someone else says, perfectly calmly and more than a little bit sarcastically. Shego's perched on the edge of a plastic chair, filing her glove-blades and looking completely unexcited. For Pete's sake - he's about to take over the world, and everyone else is _bored_!

"Of course I'm serious," he informs her. He holds out his arm to her and balls his hands up into fists to make his muscles bulge. "See, I'm very manly! Feel my muscles!"

Shego smirks at him. "I don't want to hurt you."

Okay, that was rude. He shakes his hair back so she'll know he means business and manages not to giggle when it tickles his neck. "Mock me no longer, Shego!" he booms.

Both of Shego's eyebrows shoot up in little points. "Since when dost thou speaketh Old English?" she asks, voice as deadpan as ever.

"Since now." He smiles smugly down at her, glad she's sitting so he can tower over her. "I've been reading Shakespeare to prepare for my acting debut!" Ooh, he got to say "acting debut" _again_.

"A shampoo commercial?" The doubt in her voice sends his neck hair standing on end. Well, they'll see how mouthy she is after the world has been brainwashed into serving him!

"All great artists start small," he retorts, making sure to say it "art-_tistes_," the sophisticated way. "Shakespeare probably got his big break doing shampoo commercials, too!"

He's not so sure that's true - he doesn't think they had shampoo back in 16th-century England - but he throws back his head and places one hand over his heart and closes his eyes like an actor. "Romeo, oh, Romeo!" he cries in his most dramatic voice. "Wherefore brand of shampoo dost tho use, Romeo?"

"I DON'T KNOW THIS GUY!" Shego yells to the lair in general.

__

This guy. . .

"Drak-ken." Johnson's back, tapping him on the shoulder and sounding annoyed. "We're ready to start shooting. Get your clothes off, pal."

_This guy_. . . him.

He looks down at himself. Guy.

He glances over at Shego. Girl.

Guy. Girl. Guy. Girl.

Oh, gosh. He just remembered something very important. There are a few differences between boys' and girls' body, differences Shego's not supposed to see.

"SHEGO!" he hisses frantically. "You need to leave _now_!"

"Why?" She flicks an eyebrow at him. Does she understand? Is she teasing him? How can he make her leave?

"I - I - I - I - I -" His ears are burning. "I'm going to take off - I mean - get - I -"

"You're gonna be naked." The words coming out of her mouth make him flinch. Does she have to say it like _that_ - and so _loud_?

He nods, sweat trickling down his forehead. "So you need to _get lost_." His voice, to his horror, goes up about twelve notches as he adds, "PLEASE!"

Shego just grins like she's enjoying this. "Doc, it's okay. It's not like I don't know what a male body looks like."

His brain implodes. _What_? _How_? _Who? - _whodoes he laser into thousand of tiny pieces? "You do?" he demands.

She chuckles. "Four brothers, remember?" she whispers - he knows she doesn't like to talk about them.

Oh. Brothers. He lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. "But you haven't seen _mine_!" He sees the skin under his eyes going up to keep the frustrated - maybe a little embarrassed - tears in. "And you're not _going _to! Leave!"

Shego bunches up her lips at him like he's nuts. "Chill pill, dude," she mutters, getting up from her chair. "Trust me, I have no desire to see any more of you than I do right here and now."

Phew. He sags against the side of the shower.

At the doorway, though, Shego turns around and re-smirks. "I'm going - but - Dr. D - you _do _realize girls are gonna be watching this too, right?"

He freezes. Girls watching? What - what - what if - what if the cameraman accidentally gets something on tape - something he's not supposed to - and a bunch of _women _see it?

Shego stands in the doorway, arms folded over her chest, eyebrows up. She might as well be tapping her toe and saying, "Well?"

"Shego." He squeezes the words out - he seems to be suffering from a freak case of lockjaw. "Get my swim trunks."

He turns around and gives Johnson a Death Glare, just to let him know he doesn't _care _if that's a violation of the contract. But the director shrugs and smiles at him and tells him how amazing his hair is going to look on television. The compliment is enough to make his chest stop feeling so tight and make his cheeks go back to normal color.

Two minutes later, Shego opens the door a crack and sticks in a pair of blue swim trunks. "Thanks," he whispers, reaching for them.

She pats his hand like he's a funny little kid. "Break a leg, half-a-man."

Oh, ha-ha. He scowls at her and snatches his suit away and heads back toward his waiting public, fingers crossed - on both hands - that the trunks will stay up.


	58. Safety First

Disney owns Drakken and Shego, because Disney owns everything that doesn't belong to Starbucks. (No offense to Drakken, but I think they're both _way _ahead of him in the world-conquering business.)

**Safety First**

He sneezes. For the fourteenth time.

She wouldn't be so weirded out by that - she just pulled him out of freezing-cold ocean water; _of course _he's sneezing - if it hadn't been the _only _sound she's heard out of him the whole flight. Even though Drakken's got his head tilted and his face all scrunched like he doesn't even know where the heck he is, for once he's not asking her six bazillion questions. And for once, she has no sarcastic remarks.

If only he _were _jabbering his jaws off, then she would at least know things were back to normal. Instead, she has to listen to her shoulder angel screaming at her that not giving a rip about your possessed employer kinda falls into the bad-employee category and her shoulder devil retorting that she's a _villain _for crying out loud. Supervillains aren't exactly called to be loyal.

But anything's better than remembering the way Blacktooth Browneye or whatever his stupid name was leered at her, let the word "Wench" drip from his lips like she was a piece of jetsam. Dr. D may have his faults - understatement of the decade - but he'd _never _do a thing like that.

She takes her hands off the steering gear to rub her wrists, still burning from where the stockades clamped down on them. He wouldn't do _that_, either.

_You don't know that,_ she tells herself. _Remember the Warmonga incident? He was all too happy to shackle you up then!_

_I wasn't going to kill you, Shego, _the memory of Drakken's little whimper cuts in. _You know I wasn't._

If _she _had been that ticked at _him _- and had a gigantic alien that could have squashed him like a roach - what would she have done?

She shakes her head, firmly, absolutely refusing to answer that. Right after they rejoined forces, Drakken informed her, in no uncertain terms, that they were never to talk about the Diablos or Warmonga again. Which she was perfectly fine with - she tries not to even _think _about them.

Besides, she doesn't even _know _the answer.

()()()()()()()()()()()

She steps into the living room to find Drakken sprawled on the couch, still shivering even in his dry clothes. "Shego," he mews the instant his eyes land on her. "I don't feel well."

How many times has she heard _that _over the years? Probably hundreds, usually coming after one of Drakken's scarf-till-you-barf, pork-till-you-hork feeding frenzies. Not to mention he has the tendency to catch every cold or flu bug that comes along, especially since getting out of jail.

And no wonder. Good grief, the man is scrawny. Did they not _feed _him in prison?

She raises one eyebrow and perches herself on the arm of the couch. "You need the bucket?" she asks, jerking her head toward the huge bucket that sits in one corner of the living room, the kind most people use for washing cars.

Drakken shakes his head, his still-dripping-wet ponytail smacking his cheeks. "No," he gets out in a raspy little whisper. "It's not my stomach. I just feel weird."

"Maybe because you are," she mutters. Hopefully, some good old-fashioned mocking will get him back to his usual temperamental self. She's never seen him in a funk like this, and, frankly, it's starting to worry her.

That, and the fact that he almost died today - and she did nothing -

She stops that thought before it turns into guilt. She hasn't felt guilty about anything in years, and she doesn't plan to start now. Besides, the Doc's alive and doesn't remember squat about the little possession catastrophe, so it's all just peachy-keen.

But Drakken doesn't pout or flail his arms around or squawk at her not to get lippy. Instead, his eyes take on a lost-toddler expression, and his lower lip begins to quiver.

And she just can't take a crying fit right now. "Weird how?" she asks. "Weird like you have a fever? Weird like you're dizzy?"

__

Or weird like a dead pirate dude has taken over your body?

"I don't _know_!" Drakken's voice winds up in frustration. There, that's more like it. "I'm just really, really tired." To emphasize that statement, he yawns until she can practically see his tonsils. "And hungry."

Big whoop. She knows how to fix tired and hungry. "So eat something and go to bed," she says with a shrug.

"I can't." His face contorts, and his hands ball into fists. "I don't think I can eat."

_Do _not _make me feel sorry for you, Drakken. _She plants her hands on her hips and glares down at him. "Fine. I'll get you some Pepto, then." She know she's not one to talk, but he _is _looking a little green.

"I don't need it!" Drakken snaps. "I'm _fine_!"

Uh-huh. She's heard that several times - right before he hurls all over the place. So she doesn't waste her breath arguing; she just heads to the medicine cabinet and gets a spoonful of the pink stuff.

Kneeling down beside the couch, she thrusts the spoon toward Drakken's face. "Here comes the choo-choo train. Open the tunnel."

"That's not fun - " The instant he opens his mouth to whine, she swoops down like a hawk and shoves the spoon between his lips. Drakken coughs and gives her how-dare-you? looks, but he has no choice but to swallow.

Score.

"Now, go to bed," she commands, stifling a yawn herself. "I'm going home."

Drakken's eyes careen toward panic. "No, Shego, don't," he begs. "I'm scared. _Really _scared! Can - can you please stay the night?"

She flinches inside. Anyone who knows Drakken knows he doesn't mean anything sleazy by that, but it sure sounds wrong. "Dr. D - "

"Please, please, please!" Okay, that's beyond annoying and starting toward concerning. Maybe she oughta stay - just to make sure nothing happens to him during the night - like Blackfoot deciding to pop back in and said "Hi". . .

"Sure," she mutters, flinging her hair over her shoulder. "Whatever. It's been a while since I've experienced the sheer joy of sleeping in my clothes."

Drakken shrugs his too-big-for-him shoulders. "I do it all the time."

"Yeah, but you're male." The familiar banter eases the tension pressing on her chest, just a little bit. "Guest bedroom all set up?"

He twists up his lips like that's not in his mental junk drawer. "I don't think I have any doom rays in there," Drakken finally replies. "Just some blueprints on the bed."

"Mind if I toss 'em?"

"Go ahead." Drakken flops over onto his other side and moans. "I'll just sleep out here."

She arches one eyebrow. "And wreck your back?" Since when, she wonders, does Dr. D not give a rip if she tosses some of his "super-genius" blueprints?

"Ohhhh. Good point." With what looks like great effort, Drakken pushes himself up off the couch and staggers toward his bedroom. "Good night, Shego."

That's it? No checking under his bed for monsters? He doesn't want a bedtime snack? She doesn't have to read him _Goodnight Moon_?

Oh, well, best not to question her good luck. After a day like today, she needs her beauty sleep - and heaven knows Drakken needs his.

Just before he reaches his bedroom door, Drakken turns and gives her the most pathetic, pleading look she's ever seen. She's still not feeling guilty - not yet - but the obnoxious beginnings of sympathy are tugging at her gut.

_I can't fix your life, Drakken! _she wants to scream to that face. _I'm already under pressure you couldn't possibly understand._

He folds his eyebrow. She raises both of hers. And they go into their seperate rooms without a word.

()()()()()()()()()()()()

She's not sure what time it is - before dawn, that's all she knows. And she's not sure what woke her up, either - the guest bedroom is still and quiet, empty even of any of the obnoxious flashing lights Drakken insists on decorating every Doomsday weapon he creates with.

But when an eerie cry erupts from somewhere down the hall, she's pretty sure she's found the culprit. Sounds like an opera diva being murdered.

Great. If darling little Kimmy decided to come on a midnight raid, she sure picked the wrong night.

She turns on her plasma glow, flings open the door, and jumps into the hallway, eyes darting. Huh. No Kimmy. No dopey sidekick or naked rodent. But that otherworldly wail keeps coming from Drakken's room.

__

Otherworldly. Drakken's room.

She actually gulps. What if Captain I-Can't-Use-My-Own-Body is making a grand comeback?

She bursts into his room, totally unprepared for what she _does _find.

Drakken's sitting straight up his bed, eyes open but obviously not seeing anything. He claws at the air with both hands, screaming like he's being tortured, panting like he's running a marathon. "NOOOOOOOOOOOO!" he howls. "Please, please, nooooooooo!"

As she watches in disbelief, he shakes his head back and forth in spasms and rakes his fingers down his face. "Go away, go away, go away," he stutters over and over again. "Go !" The word gets higher and more panicky until he's finally just screaming a noise of utter fear.

Crud. She's heard of people having night terrors, but she's never actually witnessed one before. Is she supposed to wake him up or not? Slap him? Throw water over his head?

Finally, she just can't take the wailing anymore. Retracting her glow, she takes him by the shoulders and shakes him, hard. "Wake up, Doc!"

She feels his body stiffen, and he starts twisting around to get out of her grasp. "No!" he cries again. "No! Stop! Don't touch me!"

"Drakken, it's me!" she hollers in his face. "It's Shego!"

Something seems to dawn behind Dr. D's glazed eyes then. They blink rapidly, and tears begin to pour out of them. "Shego?" he asks, voice fragile and disbelieving.

"Yes, it's Shego," she snaps. "Knock it off already."

He doesn't. Instead, he flings both arms around her and presses his face into her stomach, crying and bawling and hiccuping until she's sure he's gonna make himself sick. "Shego," he whimpers. "Shego, help me. Make it stop." He swallows hard, Adam's apple bobbing. "Help me, please!"

She freezes. Granted, Drakken has personal space issues, but he's never done this before. Maybe he's finally gone one-hundred-percent bonkers.

Realizing all the tears and snot he must be getting on her jumpsuit, she pulls away from him. "Drakken," she hisses through her teeth. "Do not _ever _do that - again."

He doesn't seem to hear her. He pulls his tiny hands back and starts padding the mattress around him, lifts his butt and feels under him. No. He is _not _checking what she thinks he's checking.

Drakken sighs with relief (she echoes him) and licks his lips. "Shego," he moans. "I had a nightmare. Something - something was trying to get me."

"Something like what?" she asks. _Pirate ghosties?_

"I don't know!" Drakken jerks his shoulders up to his ears. "It was just this black - thing - and it wanted to eat me, that's all I could tell!" He shudders and wraps his arms around himself. "It was horrendousfying!"

Ugh. It's too late at night for his grammar. Still, she understands big, black, scary nothings. Used to have that dream all the time when she was a kid. Shouldn't he have outgrown it by now?

_Have a heart, Shego, _Shoulder Angel pleads. _If you'd just spent the better part of the day possessed, big black things would be invading your dreams, too._

Shoulder Devil pokes the angel in the buns with her pitchfork. _Get your sappy self out of here._

"I'm not sure what it was," Drakken repeats. She can't think of any good way to tell him it probably represented the evil pirate spirit that he doesn't remember invading his body, so she just lets him continue.

"Maybe one of those big guys in prison," he adds with another shiver. "Ohhh, they were so mean to me."

She forces a snort. "Didn't let you watch the kiddie channel turning TV time?"

Drakken studies her with wounded eyes. "Worse than that, Shego. They were always giving me these _looks _whenever the guards weren't watching - like they wanted to boil my liver and eat it for breakfast."

"Yum." She curls her lip. Poor sweet baby, being tormented by evil looks from across the hall.

"They cornered me - in the gym - one day - but the guards came in just in time." He sighs from somewhere deep down. "I just wish they were faster that day in the cafeteria."

Oh. She feels herself smirk. "They stole your dessert?"

Drakken shakes his head, horror glazing his eyes. "No. One of them - big guy - hit me over the head with his lunch tray."

In spite of everything, she flinches. "Did it dent the tray?" she makes herself ask.

"No, it almost knocked me out!" Drakken shoots back through trembling, white-edged lips. "And while I was still really dizzy from that, this even _bigger _guy took his razor blade - we were only allowed to use the electric kind, so I don't know where he got it -"

_Forget what kind of razor you were allowed to use! _she wants to scream. _You hardly shave anyway - what HAPPENED?_

"He cut my arm." Drakken rolls up his pajama sleeve, revealing an angry red mark that's trying to decide whether to heal all the way or just go ahead and scar. "Just walked up and sliced it. It might have needed stitches. . . I don't remember. . . because I think I passed out." His voice trails off into sobs.

Her shoulder angel brains her shoulder devil with her halo.

Sure, things weren't all sunshine and lollipops in the women's penitentiary, but at least she didn't have to worry about getting attacked - she was by far the toughest person there. The guys' prison, from what she heard, was a zillion times worse, and she should have known little guys with big mouths - guys like Drakken - would be prime targets.

"They punished him, right?" she demands. The mental image of some gorilla of a dude sinking a razor blade into Drakken's arm is pressing on her already-tight chest.

Drakken nods. "Two weeks in solitary." His dark eyes get all thoughtful. "I had to spend time in there, too, once."

Okay, for the life of her, she can't figure out what would get Dr. D clapped in solitary confinement. "For what?"

He looks down at the mattress and twists a loose string from the sheets around one finger. "Just asking a question. . ."

"What kind of question?" she demands.

Drakken mumbles something and wraps the string tighter. The end of his finger goes purple.

Sure. _Now _he starts trying to beat around the bush. "What question?" she growls.

Drakken gulps. "I just asked what was the easiest, least painful way to kill yourself."

She slaps a hand over her mouth before she can stop herself. "You're not serious," she gasps, barely recognizing her own voice. It sounds. . . scared? Guilty? Everything she hasn't been in, like, forever?

Drakken shrugs.

_Calm down, girl. Stay in charge here. Make him stop freaking out. _

Kinda hard to do in the face of a suicidal confession, especially one she might have been able to prevent and doesn't exactly want to think about right now. "But you don't want to do it anymore, right?"

He shakes his head, but his eyes are still locked on his purple finger so she can't read the truth in them. "Look at me, Drakken," she commands.

And as if on cue, he snaps his eyes in the other direction.

"Drew Lipsky, I said _look at me_!"

She has no idea _where _that came from, but it gets Drakken to meet her gaze if only out of sheer surprise. She takes a deep breath. "Do you still want to kill yourself?"

He shakes his head no, and he means it. His eyes are sincere - and huge - and frightened - and trusting her to help him.

"Fine." She pulls away from him and shakes her head against all the new information crowding it. "Whatever you say. Just go back to bed."

"I can't." Drakken shoves a shaky fist up to his mouth.

Something from her baby-sitting years tickles the back of her brain, and she decides to go with it, just for the heck of it. "Okay. Great. I'll get you a glass of milk. It'll help," she adds when he tilts his head in confusion.

Drakken swipes his eyes with his sleeves. "I need to go to the bathroom."

She didn't need to know that. "You know where it is."

He nods and hauls himself out of his bed, while she heads toward the kitchen. Midnight glasses of milk weren't _exactly _what she had in mind when she applied to work for a mad scientist.

She yanks the jug out of the fridge and gulps furiously against the stinging in her throat. If it weren't for the Attitudinator. . . mishap. . . she wouldn't even remember what that sensation feels like, let alone what it means.

And she's sure she must be wrong now. Because, really, she is _not _about to cry.

Not at all.

()()()()()()()()()()()()()

Drakken beat her back to his bedroom. She finds him sitting up on his bed, knees drawn up to his chest as he rocks back and forth and cries dryly, like he's run out of tears.

Man. Could he be a little _more _pathetic?

"Here." She bends over and hands the cup to him. "And _sip _it," she instructs. "You're probably not up to chugging."

Drakken nods. "Okay," he snuffs. "Okay."

It seems to take three hours - Drakken sips, sniffles, gasps a breath, then takes another sip and starts the procedure all over. But he finishes his glass without puking, and his eyes start to droop the instant the milk's gone.

Phew. It still works.

She walks back over to the bed and pats his knee through the sheet. "Sweet dreams," she whispers, adding a packet of Splenda to her voice. "Wake me up again and you're dog chow."

He sighs heavily, hair-spikes sticking to his forehead with sweat. And for a second, some loony little part of her wonders what harm there would be in brushing them back and telling him it'll all be okay.

Drakken shatters that illusion by burping milk breath right in her face, and she's almost grateful. "Good night," he mumbles drowsily. He wriggles himself into a more comfortable position on the bed, pops, grunts, burps again, and gives one last sneeze for good measure.

"You're welcome," she adds dryly.

"Oh. Thank you, Shego." Drakken grins at her sloppily, almost tipsily.

She refuses to find it endearing.

()()()()()()()()

Back out in the hall, she nearly plows straight into one of the henchmen. And to her own disbelief, she's glad to see him.

Drakken would be able to tell you his name, but she has to ask. "Uhhh. . . " He stares at her like it's a trick question. "Bill."

"Okay." She props her hands on her hips and tilts her head up toward him. "Bill, what's two plus two?"

"Uh." Bill wrinkles his nose. "Four."

Good. He's one of the more intelligent henchmen.

"I got a little job for you." She stabs a finger in the general direction of Drakken's bedroom. "I want you to go watch your boss sleep."

"Really?" Bill scratches his chest and yawns. "How come?"

"Doesn't matter!" She flings her arms in the air, relishing the chance to be angry again. "Just go watch him and tell me if he does anything weird."

"Like what?" Bill asks.

__

Like trying to throw himself out the window.

"Anything." She levels her eyes at him and makes sure he can read the death glare in them. "I mean, if he _coughs_, I wanna hear about it. You understand?"

Bill nods slowly. "Yeh. I understand." He lumbers off toward Drakken's bedroom, and she opens the door for him. A gigantic snore nearly rips out her eardrums and tells her he's asleep.

Not that she wouldn't be able to tell by looking at him. Every limb is flung in a different direction, one of his weird chubby feet sticking out from under the sheet. A stream of drool trickles down from the corner of his mouth onto the pillow as he clutches a scruffy-looking teddy bear to his chest. Must have dug it out from some super-secret hiding place after she left.

She wishes Bill good luck and wanders back to the guest bedroom. Perching on the edge of the bed, she rubs her temples, which she hadn't even noticed were throbbing until now. She's not sure which would be worse for her - trusting someone or having someone else trust you.

But that doesn't necessarily make her trustworthy. This is _Drakken _they're talking about, after all. Heck, if the Grim Reaper himself walked up to him and asked him to hold his scythe for a minute, he'd do it.

_No, he would not, _one of her shoulder pests hisses. _He would be scared out of his mind and run to _you _for protection!_

Groovy. She punches her pillow, somehow resisting the temptation to do it with her plasma _on_. She has every right to be frustrated. As Drakken reminds her often, she's "just the sidekick." She shouldn't have to function as a mother - or a sister - or a baby-sitter - or even a friend. She's an employee, no more, no less.

But no matter what, she knows it's gonna be hard to forget that whipped-puppy look. And even harder to fall back asleep.


	59. Puzzle

Kim Possible and all related characters are copyright that one company that makes the Mickey Mouse cartoons.

**Puzzle**

__

"I must admit your parlor tricks are amusing

I bet you've got a bunny under your hat

Now here's your chance to get the best of me, hope your hand is hot

Come on, clown, let's see what you've got

Go ahead and -"

"What are you doing?" a female voice interrupts.

He glances up from trying to figure out where the seventh-to-last piece of his puzzle goes. It's Shego, which makes sense. She _is _the only girl who hangs around his lair, after all.

"I'm exercising my brilliant mind," he tells her proudly. Let her mock all she wants today; he heard about a new top-secret government machine on the Internet today and nothing can ruin the good mood that put him in!

Shego crosses her arms over her chest and grunts. "By doing jigsaw puzzles and singing Disney songs?"

"Disney _villain _songs!" he shoots back indignantly. "They fill me with evil inspiration!"

"Really now?" Shego's voice is disbelieving, and genomic sequencer or no genomic sequencer, the hair on his neck prickles.

"Yes, really!" He clears his throat and belts out in his deepest, most villain-accented voice, "I know that your powers of retention are as wet as a warthog's backside. . . "

Heh-heh. Mother would go through the roof if she heard him say "warthog's backside."

"Okay." Shego holds up her hands in the time-out signal. "That's enough, dude. So, has this 'evil inspiration' brought you another plan, or should I return to the fascinating world of daytime TV?"

Yes! He has a chance to rant now! He grins at her, hoping to make her grin back so he won't be alone in his overwhelming excitement. "As a matter of fact, Shego, I receivedword -" that sounds a lot better than_ found out on an Internet chatroom _- "of a genomic sequencer machine that alters the very DNA of any living creature on the planet."

His sidekick flicks a brow. "Sounds impressive."

Ohhh, she's impressed! His belly tingles with delight. "It's kept in a small lab in the tiny, homey town of Middleton," he adds with a bitter snort - very villainous, if he has to say so himself. "So small, their security probably isn't very advanced."

"Well, well, well." Shego taps her chin with a long fingernail - or is that one of the blades in her gloves? Hard to tell sometimes. "You actually considered security before it hit you in the face with a laser."

"Of course I did!" He rubs his tingly fingers together, itching to have the genomic sequencer in them right _this very second_. "Tonight, as soon as they close, we shall pay a little -" he pauses to chuckle wickedly - "surprise visit."

Ooooh, that was marvelous. He almost scared himself.

The tingle spreads to his face, and he glances down at his hands. Okay - he's not holding any sharp blades or torture instruments. It's safe to scratch.

_Ahhhh. _Much better. He pops in a few more puzzle pieces.

"Only one problem here, Doc," Shego adds. That suspicious look is back in her eyes, and his stomach drops in disappointment. "What do you know about genetics?"

Ugh - good mood disappearing. "I - unnhh - nrrgh - reegh - I know lots!" he finally manages to sputter, grabbing the first coherent words his brain produces. "Each parent gives their offspring twenty-three chromosomes, and it's up to the father to decide whether the child is a boy or a girl, because the mother automatically gives - "

"Whoa, whoa." Shego makes the time-out hands again. "I mean, do you know enough about genetics to work a machine like this? Just because you're Super Smart Genius Person doesn't mean you know _every_thing. 'Cause if you think you do, you got more problems than I thought."

Prickles pop out on his shoulder blades, and he shakes the third-to-last puzzle piece at her. "I don't know _every_thing, Shego." Huh. It's hard to say those words. Maybe he _does _have a problem. "But I know a lot of things - maybe even most things!"

Wait - did she just say he was Super Smart Genius Person? He feels himself beam.

"Okay. Fine. Dandy." Shego smirks at him. "I guess we'll find out once we get that genetic do-dad. . . "

"Genomic sequencer," he corrects her haughtily. _Genetic do-dad_; good grief! "And with it, I shall create an evil mutant army whose only purpose in life is to do my bidding! Then I shall - "

"Lemme guess." Shego's voice falls flat, like this _isn't _the most amazing moment in the history of villainy. "You shall take over the world."

His shoulders fall, and he can't help but hiss under his breath. Darn old Shego - does she have to spoil _all _his fun? "That was _my _line," he hears himself whine.

She just chuckles.

Well, whatever. He can still deliver it. "I shall take over the world! MUA-HA-HA! BWA-HA-HA!" He lets his nasty laugh hang in the air for a minute before singing at the top of his lungs:

"BE PREPARED FOR THE COUP OF THE CENTURY!

BE PREPARED FOR UNSPEAKABLE NEWS!

A SHINING NEW ERA IS TIPTOEING NEARER -"

Darn. Now he needs a hyena to sing the next line. He glances hopefully at Shego, but she has her hands pressed tightly over her ears. "_Indoor voice_," she mouths.

Humph. Who died and left her in charge of him? He flops back down into his seat and examines the third-to-last puzzle piece. Let's see - its geometric area lines up perfectly with. . . this hole right near the top. He sighs happily and sticks it in place.

"You haven't even commented on my new mustache," he grunts, rubbing the fuzziness on his upper lip from not shaving for a whole week.

The pale skin between Shego's eyebrows pinches. "Your new _what_?"

"My mustache!" He thrusts out his lip at her. "Facial hair is very 'in' for villains this season." At least that's what the latest issue of _Villains _magazine says.

"Look, Doc." Shego curls her own upper lip. "Either I'm hallucinating here or you are, because I do not see a mustache on you."

How can she not see? "It's right here!" He jabs a finger at each peppery little dot in turn. "And here! And here! And here!"

"That's _hair_?" Shego's voice wobbles with what sounds like actual giggles. "I thought your face was dirty."

He glares at her, but even though her eyes are teasing, there's no sarcasm in them. She really couldn't see his mustache. He feels his lower lip sag to his chin.

Shego shakes her head, chuckling. "Good grief, Doc, how long did it take you to grow that honkin' specimen of manhood? Four days - one for each dot?"

Humph. He tucks in his lips and refuses to answer. There is no way he's telling her it took even longer than that. And it's not _his _fault - he can't help it if Eddy got all the hairy genes in the family! He pictures forty-six furry chromosomes with "Edward" written on them next to forty-six buck-naked, unibrowed ones that say "Drew" as he jams in the second-to-last puzzle piece.

And the last one doesn't fit. How in the world can it _not _fit? Isn't it illegal to sell puzzles that can't be finished?

"Something _wrong_, Dr. D?" Shego's annoyed voice filters in around the sound of someone making noises like a hip-hop beat.

Oh. That must be him. He closes his mouth, and the funky grunts stop. "This last puzzle piece doesn't fit!" he cries, blood rushing in his ears. "It has the right dimensions, but it's a completely different shape! It's an injustice!" He pounds a fist on the table and lets out a little cry as his pain receptors remind him how tiny his hand is. "Why, when I take over the world - "

"Uh, Mr. Genius?" Shego leans over the table and examines the puzzle piece with a face that reads, _You cannot possibly be this stupid_. "It's upside-down."

Upside-do. . . oh. He flashes her a sheepish grin, but his eyes are all bunchy and he can feel the tips of his ears burning pink. "I knew that, Shego!" he yells as he turns the piece right-side-up and slides it impressively into the last empty place. "I just wanted to see how long it would take _you _to figure it out."

"Sure ya did." Shego tilts her head and smiles a condescending little smile. The pink leaks from his ears down to his cheeks and his nose.

"Well, I did." He thrusts his nose in the air and sniffs, trying to ignore the squirmy feeling inside that tells him maybe he's not quite as smart as he thinks he is. Which can't _possibly _be true. "Now leave me to work on my plan in peace!"

"Okay. Good luck." She actually sounds like she means that, and it confuses him. Shego's hard to understand - like she's a puzzle, and _all _her pieces are upside-down.

Still laughing, Shego leaves the room and almost closes the door behind her. It's open one tiny little crack, and that bugs him like nothing else. Why go to all that trouble of leaving the crack when you can just close the whole dumb door?

Growling, he slams it all the way shut and stomps his foot for good measure. He can barely even remember what he was so happy about now. . .

Oh, right. The genomic sequencer and his upcoming evil mutant army. That cheers him right up.

"Hakuna matata," he sings to himself as he pulls out a pad of paper and his sixty-four pack of crayons to help him plan the details of his wicked scheme. "What a wonderful phrase."

And for a minute, he doesn't even care that it's not a villain song.

**A/N: The songs Drakken sings are (in order):**

***"You're Only Second Rate" from _The Return of Jafar _**

**_*"_Be Prepared" from _The Lion King _**

**_*"_Hakuna Matata," also from _The Lion King _**

**_(_All are copyright Disney.)**


	60. Solitude

Shego is copyright Team Go. *disappears under a thousand angry Disney lawyers and one furious Shego*

**Solitude**

Just a few feet in front of her, a fallen tree is lying on its side, broken-off limbs scattered around it. The only visible sign that something is totally wrong here.

She sighs and sinks down onto the now-horizontal trunk, putting both hands up to the sides of her head to think. The night is infuriatingly calm and serene, like the sky _didn't _just open up and swallow Drakken whole. Everything she knows was just shattered - like she's gazing at the world through the glass of a broken window - and the stars still have the nerve to twinkle and mock her with their normalcy.

She has no idea what she's going to do now. And that kind of unnerves her.

Sure, it was nice to be able to slink soundlessly off into the night without Drakken stumbling over his lankiness behind her, but it was also. . . weird. Unfamiliar. Maybe even lonely?

Her chest gets hotter and tighter by the minute, until she gives into the urge to stand up and kick the tree. Okay, granted, it's childish, but, hey, she figures it's perfectly fine to be immature right about now.

And it's not like anyone's here to see her.

That does it. She turns on her plasma glow out of sheer frustration. In the green flame, she spots a tiny nest, turned upside-down, two inches away from her foot. Smashed bits of blue eggshell confirm it's gotta be a robin's nest.

Robin's-egg-blue. _His _blue. Naturally.

She groans and smears a hand down the length of her face, trying to ignore how heavy her chest feels. _And _the flames of fury licking at her stomach. _And _the kinda embarrassing way her legs are shaking.

She knows better by now than to get too attached to anyone. It's just too messy for a villain, especially when they inevitably die or leave or betray you in some way. Not something she needs to bother with.

And Dr. D? He's a pain in the patoot, especially recently. He's been moodier and jumpier than ever. His schemes are less frequent and more bizarre. Mention the words "Li'l Diablo" to him and watch him turn white and snap at her to never, _ever _talk about that again.

How many times over the past year has she closed her eyes and wished she would never see him again? And now that it's suddenly possible she _might _not ever seen him again, or hear him whine, or smell that weird chemical scent that always hangs on him -

Why does that suddenly sound like the least appealing idea in the galaxy?

She closes her eyes and tries to force her mind not to rewind to the abduction, but, of course, it does anyway. At the time, the ship seemed to be beaming him up in slo-mo, but then, suddenly, everything went into fast-forward - there was a flash of black hair and yellow petals - and Drakken was gone.

And if it's Warmonga and her brood - and, really, who _else _could it be? - he's as good as dead. They'll probably yank out his brain with a giant pair of tweezers to study it under a microscope, or maybe they'll just vaporize him with one of those lovely little death rays Miss Amazon brought with her last time.

She surprises herself by cringing at the thought. She remembers the way Drakken looks at you when he thinks you're going to hurt him, the way his ears pin back and his ponytail droops - and the way he starts whimpering like a puppy someone left out in the rain -

And the thought of anyone but her incurring that just doesn't sit right with her. Yeah. She's startin' to get more than a little bit angry.

Not that there's really anything she could do about it. Much as she hates to admit it, Warmonga wiped the floor with her last time, and that was just one-on-one. What could she do with a couple of her buddies to back her up? What if she brought her parents, or her boyfriend, or the alien equivalent of a rabid pit bill just to add to the inconvenience of this whole stinkin' thing?

Sure, she's saved Drakken's pitiful hide so many times she's lost count, but only from things she could fight off and he couldn't - which was just about everything. Never from anything that posed any danger to _her_.

__

You've never risked anything for him.

"Shut up, okay?" she mutters to her shoulder angel. "I _really _don't need your opinion right now."

After all, if _she'd _been abducted, it's not like the Doc would be rushing to her rescue or anything. Would he?

Ah, heck with it. He'd probably already have a rocket ship halfway assembled by this point, ready to come up after her. Of course, the thing would explode the instant he tried to turn it on, but -

But -

__

"Shego, oh, Shego! You came back!"

"Just my way of saying thanks for a great year and Merry Christmas. Yours in evil, Dr. Drakken."

"Shego, I always thought of us as some kind of an evil family. If you need anything, I'm here for you."

"Shego! Are you okay? Did that bird. . . guy hurt you? Did he hurt you?"

"Don't be sad, Shego. It makes me sad, too."

"If you're going to go out with that guy, I need an ID and a criminal background check. Maybe some DNA testing, too."

"Shego, please help me. I need you."

She presses her lips together and exhales slowly. And what has she done to repay him? Left him in prison, trashed his lair, told him over and over and over again what a hopeless, pathetic loser he is. For the love of Mike, the man was possessed by an evil spirit, and she hadn't even _tried _to help him.

__

"You can't buy real friends - like Shego. Loyal, faithful. . ."

The already-shattered glass breaks further, falling off the window completely. But for some reason, she know she's seeing a lot more clearly now.

_I have been _so _incredibly stupid._

But not anymore. If these stupid aliens think they can barge in and kidnap _her _- uh - her employer and attempt to take over _her _planet, they've got another thing coming. She's not going to stand there and welcome them and hand out complementary mints - she's one of Earth's most notorious supervillains, for crying out loud!

The familiar, comforting sense of anger thrusts her to her feet, and she ricochets off the trees that are still standing, taking off into the night in leaps and bounds. She doesn't know exactly where she's going, but she definitely knows who she's looking for.

Kimmie. She can't believe she's even thinking this, but the two of them _were _able to take Warmonga down together last time - they'll at least be able to give her and her chums a run for their money tonight. And she won't exactly have to twist the Princess's arm to get her to save Drakken - she's done it before. Several times.

_Holy crow._ She screeches to a halt several feet away from what looks like a cross between a Diablo and a mutant spider.

_Houston, we have a problem._

So that must be part of the alien's attack force. Not too shabby.

She narrows her eyes, sets her jaw, and lights her hand. _But let's see how well they stand up to high-energy plasma balls from a severely ticked-off villainness._

She advances on the machine in leaps and bounds, her plan already unfolding in her brain. After she's dismembered the demonic arachnid, she'll go find Kimmie and strike her a deal - an extra pair of hands helping her fight off the aliens in exchange for Drakken being brought back safe. __

What if they've already killed him?

Okay, that thought halts her progress in mid-jump.

But it's not nearly as bad as the mental images that follows - the Doc on a cold intergalactic exam table, bleeding and helpless, probably bawling for her. Limp and lifeless in Warmonga's arms.

Lying dead at the feet of some alien who shoots first and asks questions never.

Molten fury rushes through her veins, and she clenches her jaw even harder. If they've already killed him, they die. Simple as that.

She lunges toward the machine again, slashing and hacking and slicing and melting in a way she's never done before. She can't remember the last time she was this angry, and that's saying something. This thing needs to get out of her way and let her go find her arch-foe so they can go save her. . . her . . .

Okay. Fine. She sighs from the tips of her toes.

Her friend.


	61. Relaxation

So. . . this is the conclusion. Before anyone freaks out, I want you all to know it's more of a "What if?" fic that anything else. It's also _very _sappy and slightly corny, but I couldn't think of any other way to end it.

Oh, and even though it's now complete, I'm keeping the "Work in Progress" in the title. Anyone care to guess why? (I'll answer at the end if you're really stumped.)

**Relaxation**

"Uncle Drakken?"

He mutes the Discovery Channel and looks down into the wide green eyes of his niece. It's his day to watch her for a while after school, since he gets off work early on Thursdays now. He likes those days, and so does she, because he always picks her up in the hovercraft. "Yeah, kiddo?"

She spreads out a skinny little paperback book on the coffee table in front of him and stabs a finger toward a word on page 21. "What's that word say?" she asks, looking up at him with the cutest little wrinkle between her eyebrows.

He leans in to study the word in question. She's learning all kinds of new words every day, and he's learning with her - words still aren't his strong point, but they _are _fascinating in their own way. Just a few weeks ago, he learned about how to tell whether someone means something "literally" or "figuratively." For example, he can _figuratively _climb the walls when he gets really, really excited, but he can't _literally _do it - he's not Spider-Man, after all.

Hmm. _Totalitarian_. Nope, nothing clicks in his brain for that word. Heck, he's not even sure how to _pronounce _it!

He gives his niece a playful scowl. "What are you doing, reading books with such big words in them?"

She rolls her eyes at him, just like her mother. "Du-uh. I _am _six years old."

Doesn't he know it. It's the perfect age - old enough to walk and talk and go to school and, most importantly, be out of diapers, but still young enough to be cute. And still young enough that she doesn't question why he has such a weird name, or why he's so much older than her mother and her other four uncles, or why his hands don't glow when he uses his powers the way theirs do.

"So -" she plants her hands on her little hips - "you don't know what it means, do you?"

He grins down at her. "No, not really. But that's why God made dictionaries."

That's good for another eye-roll. "God didn't make dictionaries, Uncle Drakken." She giggles a little. "You're so weird."

She says that like it's a fact, not an insult. His neck prickles don't go up, and his shoulders stay wide-apart and proud. "Thanks."

He retrieves the dictionary from the top shelf of the bookcase - man, it's heavy - and flips over to the T's. Tot, total, total eclipse - ah, there it is!

_Totalitarian, adj._

"A system of government where the people have virtually no authority and the state wields absolute control of every aspect of the country," he reads out loud, around a throat that gets tighter with every word, "socially, financially, and politically; for example, a dictatorship such as -"

He cuts the explanation off there; no little girl needs to know about the Nazis in first grade. "Did you catch that?" he asks, swallowing a super-sized lump. Because if she didn't, there's no way he's reading that again.

"Sorta." She shrugs casually. "Like if someone took over the world or something."

_Oooh._ His stomach feels like he just swallowed a cooler's worth of ice. It all comes rushing back at a speed only slightly slower than light.

_With this Doomsday device -_

_Gigantic killer robot - _

_Brain-switching device - _

_Genomic sequencer - _

_Stolen cybertronic technology - _

_I will take over the world!_

_Take over the world! MUA-HA-HA!_

He curls himself up tight on the couch and closes his eyes. When those memories come back, there's only one way to shoo them away. Replace them with new ones.

_Your bravery was greatly appreciated the night of the alien invasion._

_You're the reason your old cell mate reformed, ya know._

_Well, well, well. I leave for college for a few months and come back to find my arch-nemesis a whole new man._

_Actually, I want _you _to give me away._

"Uncle Drakken?" His niece snaps her fingers two inches away from his face. He never could figure out how to do that. "Yoo-hoo. You okay?"

"Uhhh - yes." He manages to grin, and his lips don't even tremble that much. "I'm fine."

But for a minute, he's not so sure that he is. She looks so small and innocent, standing there with her head cocked and her pale little lips all bunched up. So precious that he doesn't want anything even remotely evil to ever be within twenty-five miles of her.

He bends down and cups her chin in his hand, tilting it up so she has to look him in the eye. "Promise me you won't ever try to do anything like that, okay?"

"What? Take over the world?" She wrinkles her nose. "Why would I do a dumb thing like that?"

Phew. That's a good sign. Then again, he probably would have said the same thing when he was six. . .

"Just promise me, okay?" He hears his voice crack a little, but he doesn't care. For a minute, nothing matters except making sure she never has to go through what he did - _ever_.

"Okay, I promise." She snickers under her breath. "You're so silly."

"Oh, really?" He gets up on his hands and knees on the couch and smiles at her teasingly, relief pouring through him. "Am I?"

"Ye-ah." She gets down on _her _hands and knees and returns his smile. "Mom says when the nurse at the hospital came out to tell you I was born, you asked -" she puts on her best man-voice, which isn't that good - "'Am I an aunt or an uncle?'"

Pink rises to the tips of his ears as he remembers that. "I _meant _to ask if you were a boy or a girl!"

"I know that!" she squeals back. "But it just proves my point." She sticks her head and shoulders under him to poke his belly button. "You're silly."

__

Ohhh, but there are other things he remembers about that day. He remembers holding her in his arms, marveling at how perfect she was, the way her eyelashes, which were so dark, rested against her cheeks, which were so pale. . . and the way his throat lumped all up and he kind of let a tear splash out of control onto her little pink blanket and Shego didn't even make fun of him.

He's only her uncle, and that's not even biologically. She has none of his DNA, but the instant he laid eyes on her, he knew she was part of him and she always would be.

"It's okay," he whispered to the tiniest face in existence. "I won't let you fall."

But for now, all he says is, "Yep, that's me. A silly goose." And he turns her over, hikes up her shirt, and blows a raspberry - why is it called that, anyway? - on her bare belly.

She squeals and giggles and bats at the air, and that little vulnerable place under her arms is just begging to be tickled. So he does, and then she attacks the bottoms of his feet until he's about purple from laughing so hard.

He's not sure quite how long the tickle war goes on, but it ends when she suddenly spreads her palm across his, fingertips stretched out to compare their hands. "Look, Uncle Drakken," she says proudly. "My hands are already almost as big as yours."

He can't help but chuckle. "Well, that might not be saying much. My hands are. . . pretty - uh - small."

"I know." She rests her head on his belly and sighs. "That's what my mom told me. She always says you've got little bitty hands and a great big heart."

Shego says that? He feels himself glow.

His niece reaches up and places her hand on his eyebrow. "Make it crinkle," she commands.

He grunts at her. "What do you say?"

"Ple-ease?" She sticks out her lower lip and gives puppy-eyes.

Pretty hard to resist. He makes it crinkle, and it folds up into rows under her hand. She grins that twitchy smile that's so much like Shego's.

He puts one hand to his chest, because his heart is suddenly so full of happiness and love that he's sure it's going to explode. Sounds uncomfortable, but it's really not.

But it definitely needs some form of release. He bends down and brushes a strand of black hair away from her face. "I love you, kiddo," he whispers - his throat is feeling all thick again, and he doesn't trust it to talk louder.

"You're random," is her reply. "But I love you too."

_Those _are words he'll never get tired of hearing.

She snuggles herself up under his arm and tugs at the sleeve of his lab coat. "Can I watch TV with you now?"

"Sure," he says. "I guess so - wait a minute," he interrupts himself as a thought strikes him. (Is it rude to interrupt yourself?) "Have you finished all your homework?"

"Most of it," she shrugs.

Uh-_uh_. Most is not all. He presses his mouth into a straight, serious line. "What do you still need to do?"

She scowls at the rug. "My science homework."

That's perfect! He feels his face light up into a huge grin as he jumps off the couch and grabs her hands. "I'm pretty good at science, you know. I bet I could help you!"

"Really?" She raises one eyebrow, Shego-style.

"Yes, really." He hauls her off the couch and starts to drag her toward the kitchen, tumbling over his untied shoelaces. "Come on, let's go get started!"

Back when he was still a villain, he never imagined life could be this wonderful on _either _side of the law. One of Global Justice's recent studies said the organization's efficiencyhas gone up three hundred percent in the last ten years. He doesn't want to be arrogant and claim all the credit, but a lot of that's due to _his _baby, the Immobilizer 2000.

Dr. Director definitely appreciates his help. On his latest yearly report, she wrote, and he quotes, "Dr. Drakken is definitely getting a handle on his temper and is a valuable asset to Global Justice. His amazing intellect has made him one of our top scientists, and his childlike exuberance makes him a joy to be around." That was one of those moments when his heart almost burst out of his chest with joy.

He found a gray hair in the mirror the other day. Its name is Charles.

Mother, of course, is just happy that she finally has a grandkid. He's happy that she's happy (and secretly glad that he didn't have to be the one to have a kid).

And when someone called him a loser at Smarty Mart the other day because he was X-ray-scanning the cereal boxes to see which one had the best toy inside - well, it hurt. It hurt a lot. But he didn't feel the need to laser-fry the man into submission and show him who he _really _is, because most of the world already knows. Even more importantly, _he _finally knows who he really is.

A hero. A scientist who uses his amazing intellect and childlike exuberance to help make the world a better place. A person who loves his family and friends and knows they love him back. He wouldn't give that up for the world.

Literally.

**()()()()())()()()**

**So, that's my story, thanks for reading.**

**No, the niece does not have a name - heck, I'm still trying to figure out who her father is! But I will take suggestions (name suggestions, _not _daddy suggestions).**

**"Work in Progress" is staying in the title, because it's not the story that's a WIP - it's Drakken himself. **

**X-ray-scanning cereal boxes to see what the prize is comes from an episode of _Phineas of Ferb_. **

**I want to offer up my biggest thanks to everyone who left a review for their kindness, their encouragement, and their all-around awesomeness. God bless you all.**

**And if you read and didn't review. . . well, feel free to drop me a line if you want, but if not - thanks for reading anyway, and I hope you enjoyed.**

**Take care, guys. **


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